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/pi-v-«^^w-<'^ 


-1    (i^L^c^C/;  ___ 

ADAM     BBDE 

A    PUrAY 


Dramatized  from  George  Eliot's  Novel  \  ''//:  \  \  / 
ADAM     BEDE 


>^^ 


MABEL    CLARE    CRAFT 

OAKI«AND,   CAI^IFGRNIA.     ^  xs^  ^ 


Copyright  by  Mabel  Clare  Craft,  1901. 


n 


Oakland,    Calif. 

Prxss  op  Thb  Oakland  Tbibune 

1901 


•    •    •• 


•  ••  •  • 


CAST  OF  CHARACTERS 


Pi^ACE — Staffordshire  and  Berkshire,  England. 
Time— 1 799-1800. 


HETTY  SORREL 

ADAM  BEDE 

CAPTAIN  ARTHUR  DONNI- 

THORNE 
MRS.  POYSER 
MARTIN   POYSER 
DINAH   MORRIS 
RECTOR  IRWINE 
BARTIvE  MRSSEY 
SARAH  STONE 
JOHN  STONE 
JOHN  OLDING 
TOTTY 
MOLLY 
TOMMY  rOYSER 


MARTIN  POYSER,  jR. 
MISS    LYDIA    DONNI- 

THORNE 
MRS.   IRWINE 
SQUIRE  DONNITHORNE 
THE  PROSECUTOR 
DR.   BUFORD 
BAILIFF  OF  COURT 
CLERK  OF  COURT 
JAIL    CHAPLAIN 
THE  JUDGE 

FOREMAN  OF  THE  JURY 
A  COUNSELLOR  AT  LAW 
A  TURNKEY 
TENANTS,  JURORS,  Etc. 


r  ACT    I.  j 


(PLACE:  The  kitchen  of  the  Hall  Farm.  TIME:  July  1ft, 
1799.  At  the  right  of  the  stage  a  door  leading  to  the  yard;  at 
the  left  a  big  open  fireplace  and  a  cupboard.  Above  the  fireplace 
a  high  mantel,  with  brass  candlesticks  in  a  row.  A  tall  oak 
clock  of  old-fashioned  make  and  brilliantly  polished,  stands  at  the 
back  of  the  stage,  under  the  stairs  an  oak  table, 
brightly  polished  and  turned  up  against  the  wall. 
Above  it  are  the  shelves  of  bright  pewter  dishes  and  blue  and 
white  plates.  At  the  back  of  the  stage  (left)  is  an  alcove, 
one  step  up  with  a  wide  entrance,  and  here  are  seen  churns 
and  shelves  on  which  stand  mounds  of  butter  and  cheeses.  The 
earthenware  is  cream  and  red  with  soft  brown  wood  and  bright 
tin,  making  a  pretty  color  study.  By  the  side  of  the  dairy  a 
fiight  of  steps  lead  upstairs. 

In  the  kitchen  are  Mrs.  Poyser  and  Dinah  Morris.  Mrs.  Poyser 
stands  in  the  open  door  in  bright  sunshine,  busily  knitting  a 
gray  stocking  at  which  she  seldom  glances.  Mrs.  Poyser  is  a 
good-looking  matron  of  thirty-eight,  of  fair  complexion  and 
dark  hair,  well-shaped,  light-footed.  She  wears  a  plain  dark 
gown  and  a  white  cap  with  a  little  frill  around  her  face.  The  most 
conspicuous  article  of  her  attire  is  a  big,  checkered  linen  apron, 
which  almost  covers  her  skirt.  Her  eyes  are  very  keen  and  are 
constantly  glancing  about  from  the  dairy  to  the  yard  and  back 
again,  as  though  looking  for  dust  or  careless  servants.  She  only 
melts  at  sight  of  her  little  daughter,  Totty.  Her  tongue  Is  not 
less  keen  than  her  eye.  She  steps  quickly  and  lightly  and  her 
voice  is  sharp. 

Dinah  Morris,  her  niece,  is  seated  mending  a  sheet.  Dinah  re- 
sembles her  aunt  in  complexion,  but  is  paler  and  her  expression 
is  of  the  utmost  mildness.  Dinah  is  twenty- five,  wears  a 
perfectly  plain  black  gown  and  a  white  net  cap,  severely  plain, 
high-crowned  and  without  a  border.  Dinah's  dark  hair  is  parted 
in  the  middle  and  brought  down  smoothly  over  her  ears.  Her  eyes 


ADAM    BEDE A    PLAY 


are  clear  and  her  voice  extremely  soft  and  gentle  and  sweet. 

Occasionally  a  young  girl  passes  across  the  wide  opening  of 
the  dairy.  The  girl  is  but  seventeen  and  distractingly  pretty.  Her 
curling  hair  shows  beneath  her  coquettishly  fluted  cap.  Hetty's 
cheeks  are  pink  as  a  rose  petal,  her  dark  lashes  are  long,  she 
has  dimples  in  cheeks  and  arms.  She  wears  a  low  bodice  of 
plum- colored  cloth,  with  a  white  neckerchief  spotted  with  pink, 
which  is  tucked  inside  her  bodice.  Her  ankle-length  skirt  is  of 
the  plum- colored  cloth,  almost  covered  with  a  big  linen  butter- 
making  apron  with  a  bib.  She  wears  brown  stockings  and  neat 
little  shoes  with  large  square  steel  buckles.  Her  sleeves  are 
turned  up  above  the  elbows.  She  tosses  the  butter  she  is  making 
with  pretty  and  graceful  gestures,  with  great  play  of  her  pouting 
lips  and  much  making  of  eyes.  She  makes  little  patting 
and  rolling  movements  with  the  palm  of  her  hand  and  the  but- 
ter is  like  marble  under  a  pale  yellow  light.  As  she  works  she 
sings  snatches  of  "Walking  in  the  Dew  Makes  the  Milk  Maids 
Fair"— old  English. 

Mrs.  Poyser  comes  and  sits  down  opposite  Dinah  and  looks 
at  her  with  meditative  eyes,  knitting  automatically,  while  Hetty 
works  and  sings.) 

MRS.  POYSER. 
You  look  th'  image  o'  your  Aunt  Judith,  Dinah,  when 
you  sit  a -sewing.  I  could  almost  fancy  it  was  thirty 
years  back,  and  I  was  a  little  gell  at  home,  looking  at 
Judith  as  she  sat  at  her  work,  after  she'd  done  th'  house 
up. 

DINAH. 

She  was  a  blessed  woman.  God  had  given  her  a  lov- 
ing, self-forgetting  nature,  and  he  perfected  it  by  grace. 
She  used  to  say,  "You'll  have  a  friend  on  earth  in  your 
Aunt  Rachel,  if  I'm  taken  away  from  you;  for  she  has  a 
kind  heart;"  and  I'm  sure  I've  found  it  so. 

MRS.  POYSER. 

I  don't  know  how,  child:  anybody  ud'  be  cunning  to  do 
anything  for  you;  you're  like  the  birds  o'  th'  air,  and  live 
nobody  knows  how.  I'd  ha'  been  glad  to  behave  to  you 
like  a  mother's  sister,  if  you'd  come  and  live  i'  this 
country,  where  there's  some  shelter  and  victual  for  man 
and  beast,  and  folks  don't  live  on  the  naked  hills,  like 


ADAM    BEDE A    PLAY 


poultry  a-scratching  on  a  gravel  bank.  But  Where's  the 
use  o'  talking,  if  you  wonna  be  persuaded  and  settle  down 
like  any  other  woman  in  her  senses,  i'  stead  o'  wearing 
yourself  out,  with  walking  and  preaching.  And  all  be- 
cause you've  got  notions  i'  your  head  about  religion  more 
nor   what's   i'    the   Catechism   and    the    Prayer-book. 

DINAH. 

But  not  more  than  what's  in  the  Bible,  aunt. 
MRS.  POYSER   (sharply.) 

Yes,  and  the  Bible,  too,  for  that  matter,  else  why 
shouldn't  them  as  know  best  what's  In  the  Bible — the 
parsons  and  people  as  have  got  nothing  to  do  but  learn 
it — do  the  same  as  you  do?  But,  for  the  matter  o'  that, 
if  everybody  was  to  do  like  you,  the  world  must  come  to 
a  standstill,  and  everybody  'ud  be  running  after  every- 
body else  to  preach  to  'em,  i'  stead  o'  bringing  up  their 
families,  and  laying  by  against  a  bad  harvest.  It  stands 
to  sense  as  that  can't  be  the  right  religion. 

DINAH. 

Nay,  dear  aunt,  you  never  heard  me  say  that  all  people 
are  called  to  forsake  their  work  and  their  families.  We 
can  all  be  servants  of  God,  wherever  our  lot  is  cast,  but 
he  gives  us  different  sorts  of  work,  according  as  he  fits 
us  for  it  and  calls  us  to  do  it.  I  can  no  more  help  spend- 
ing my  life  in  trying  to  do  what  I  can  for  the  souls  of 
others  than  you  could  help  running  if  you  heard  little 
Totty  crying  at  the  other  end  of  the  house;  the  voice 
would  go  to  your  heart,  and  you  couldn't  rest  running  to 
help  her  and  comfort    her. 

MRS.  POYSER. 
(Rising  and  walking  towards  the  door,  still  knitting.) 

I  know  it  'ud  be  just  the  same  if  I  was  to  talk  to  you 
for  hours.    You'd  make  me  the  same  answer  at  the  end.    I 
might  as  well  talk  to  the  running  brook  and  fell  it  to 
Stan'   still. 
(In  a  flurried,  awe-struck  tone.) 

If  there  isn't  Captain  Donnithorne  and  Mr.  Irwine  a- 
coming  into  the  yard.  Til  lay  my  life  they're  coming 
to  speak  about  your  preaching  on  the  Green,  Dinah;   It's 


ADAM    BEDE A    PLAY 


you  must  answer  'em,  for  I'm  dumb.  I've  said  enough 
a'ready  about  your  bringing  such  disgrace  upo'  your 
uncle's  family.  I  wouldn't  ha'  minded  if  you'd  been  Mr. 
Peyser's  own  piece;  folks  must  put  up  wi'  their  own  kin 
as  they  put  up  wi'  their  own  noses — it's  their  own  flesh 
and  blood.  But  to  think  of  a  niece  o'  mine  being  cause  o' 
my  husband's  being  turned  out  o'  his  farm. 

DINAH    (interrupting  gently.) 

Nay,  dear  Aunt  Rachel,  j'ou  have  no  cause  for  such 
fears.  I've  strong  assurance  that  no  evil  will  happen  to 
you  and  my  uncle  from  anything  I've  done.  I  didn't 
preach  without  direction. 

MRS.  POYSER. 
(Knitting  in  a  rapid,  agitated  manner.) 

Direction!     I  know  very  well  what  you  mean     by     di- 
rection.    When  there's  a  bigger  maggot     than     usual  in 
your  head  you  call  it  "direction,"  and  then  nothing  can 
stir  you.    I  hanna  common  patience  with  you. 
(Mrs.  Poyser  goes   out  onto  the  doorstep   curtseying  low  and 
repeatedly,  trembling  between  her  anger  at  Dinah  and  her  anx- 
iety to  conduct  herself  with  perfect  propriety  on  this  important 
occasion. 

Mr.  Irwine  enters  with  stately  cordiality.  He  is  a  rather  stout 
man  of  about  50,  with  a  ruddy  complexion,  a  finely  cut'  profile,  a 
genial  face  and  powdered  hair  tied  with  a  black  ribbon.  He 
wears  clerical  dress  and  carries  a  riding  whip.  He  is  a  jovial, 
hearty,  well-fed  man  of  the  world  in  contrast  to  Dinah's  spirit- 
uality. 

Captain  Arthur  Donnithorne,   who   enters  just  behind  him,   is 
not  yet  twenty-one,  with  a  clean-shaven  face,  soft  brown  hair, 
a  tall  well-set  figure.     He  wears  a  striped     waist     coat,  a  long- 
tailed  coat  and  low  boots,  and  carries  a  riding  whip  also.) 
MR.    IRWINE. 
Well,  Mrs.  Poyser,  how  are  you  after  this  stormy  morn- 
ing.    Our  feet  are  quite  dry;  we  shall  not  soil  your  beau- 
tiful floor. 

MRS.  POYSER. 
Oh,  sir,  don't  mention  it.     Will  you    and     the     captain 
please  to  walk  into  the  parlor? 


ADAM    BEDE A    PLAY 


CAPTAIN    DONNITHORNE. 

(Looking  eagerly    around    the    kitchen    as     though    he    were 
looking  for  something  he  did  not  find.) 

No,  indeed,  thank  you,  Mrs.  Poyser.     I  delight  in  your 
kitchen.     I  think  it  is  the  most  charming  room  I  know. 
I  should  like  every  farmer's  wife  to  come  and  look  at  it 
for  a  pattern. 
(Dinah  rises  as  the  gentlemen  come  in,  still  keeping  hold  of 
her  sheet,  and  curtseys  respectfully.         She  seats  herself     when 
the  gentlemen  seat  themselves.     Mr.  Irwine  draws  a  chair  close 
to  hers  and   looks  at  her  intently,   occasionally  addressing  her. 
She  replies  in  monosyllables,  and  continues  to  sew.     Their  con- 
versation is  inaudible  to  the  audience.) 
MRS.  POYSER. 
(Relieved  a  little  by  this  compliment  and  the  captain's  evident 
good  humor,  but  stlil  glancing  anxiously  at  Mr,  Irwine.) 
Oh'  you're  pleased  to  say  so,  sir:  pray  take  a  seat. 

CAPTAIN    DONNITHORNE. 

(Seating  himself  where  he  can  see  into  the  dairy.) 
Poyser  isn't  at  home  is  he? 

MRS.  POYSER. 

No,  sir,  he  isn't;  he's  gone  to  Rosseter  to  see  about 
the  wool. 

CAPTAIN    DONNJTHORNE. 
(Still  looking  Into  the  dairy.     Hetty's  song  comes  at  intervals. 
She  is  invisible.) 

Well,  I'll  just  look  at  the  whelps,  and  leave  a  message 
about  them  to  your  shepherd.  I  must  come  another  day 
and  see  your  husband.  I  want  to  have  a  consultatloj* 
with  him  about  horses.  Do  you  know  when  he's  likely 
to  be  at  liberty? 

MRS.  POYSER. 
Why,  sir,  you  can  hardly  miss  him,  excepts  it's  o'  Tred- 
des'on  market  day— that's  of  a  Friday,  you  know;   for  If 
he's  anywhere  on  the    farm    we    can    send  for  him  In  a 
minute. 

CAPTAIN    DONNITHORNE. 
By  the  by,  I've  never  seen  your  dairy.  I  must  see  your 
dairy,  Mrs.  Poyser. 


10  ADAM    BEDE A    PLAY 

MRS.  POYSER. 

Indeed  sir.  It's  not  fit  for  you  to  go  in.  Hetty's  in  the 
middle  o'  making  the  butter,  for  the  churning  was  thrown 
late,  and  I'm  quite  ashamed. 

CAPTAIN    DONNITHORNE. 
Oh,  I've  no  doubt  it's  in  capital  order.     Take  me  In. 
(He  leads  the  way.     Mrs.  Poyser  follows.     Hetty  meets  them 
at  the   door,   curtseying   deeply.     They     disappear     within     the 
dairy.) 

MR.    IRWINE. 

And  have  you  been  long  In  the  habit  of  preaching? 

DINAH. 
I  first  took  to  the  work  four  years  since,  when  I  was 
twenty- one. 

MR.   IRWINE. 
Your  society  sanctions   women's  preaching  then? 

DINAH. 
It  doesn't  forbid  them,  sir,  when  they've  a  clear  call  to 
the  work,  and  when  their  ministry  is  owned  by  the  con- 
version of  sinners  and  the  strengthening  of  God's  people. 
MR.   IRWINE. 
Tell  me — if  I  may  ask,  and  I  am  really  interested  In 
knowing  it — how  you  first  came  to  think  of  preaching? 
DINAH. 
Indeed,  sir,  I  didn't  think  of  It    at    all — ^I'd    been    used 
from  the  time  I  was  sixteen  to  talk  to  the  little  children 
and  teach  them,  and  sometimes  I  had  had  my  heart  en- 
larged to  speak  in    class,    and    was    much    drawn  out  in 
prayer  with  the  sick.       But  I  felt       no     call  to       preach. 
I  was  called  to  preach  quite  suddenly,  and  since  then  I 
have  never  been  left  in  doubt  about  the  work  that  was 
laid  upon  me. 

MR.   IRWINE. 
But  tell  me    the    circumstances — ^just    how  It  was,  the 
very  day  you  began  to  preach. 

DINAH. 
(Letting  fall  her  work  for  the  first  time  and  standing  with  a 
rapt  expression,  her  hands  clasped.) 


ADAM     BEDE A    PLAY  11 

It  was  one  Sunday  I  walked  with  Brother  Marlowe,  who 
was  an  aged  man,  one  of  the  local  preachers,  all  the  way 
to  Hetton-Deeps — that's  a  village  where  the  people  get 
their  living  by  working  in  the  lead  mines,  and  where 
there's  no  church  nor  preacher,  but  they  live  like  sheep 
without  a  shepherd.  Before  we  got  to  Hetton,  Brother 
Marlowe  was  seized  with  dizziness,  for  he  overworked 
himself  sadly  at  his  years,  in  watching  and  praying,  and 
walking  so  many  miles  to  speak  the  Word,  as  well  as 
carrying  on  his  trade  of  linen- weaving.  And  when  we  got 
to  the  village  the  people  were  expecting  him,  and  many 
of  them  were  assembled  on  a  spot  where  the  cottages 
were  thickest.  But  he  was  forced  to  lie  down  in  the  first 
we  came  to.  So  I  went  to  tell  the  people,  thinking  we'd 
go  into  one  of  the  houses,  and  I  would  read  and  pray  with 
them.  But  as  I  passed  along  by  the  cottages  and  saw  the 
aged  trembling  women  at  the  doors,  and  the  hard  looks 
of  the  men,  who  seemed  to  have  their  eyes  no  more  filled 
with  the  sight  of  the  Sabbath  morning  than  If  they  had 
been  dumb  oxen  that  never  looked  up  to  the  sky,  I  felt  a 
great  movement  in  my  soul,  and  I  trembled  as  if  I  was 
shaken  by  a  strong  spirit  entering  Into  my  weak  body. 
And  I  spoke  the  words  that  were  given  to 
me  abundantly.  And  they  came  round  me  out  of  all  the 
cottages,  and  many  wept  over  their  sins.  That  was  the 
beginning  of  my  preaching,  sir,  and  I've  preached  ever 
since. 

MR.    IRWINE. 

(After  a  decided  pause.) 

Some  of  our  most  Intelligent  workmen  about  here  are 
Methodists  and  think  as  you  do.  I  dare  say  you  know 
the   Cranages.     They  are   Methodists. 

DINAH. 

Yes,  I  know  them  well— sincere  and  without  offense. 
MR.   IRWINE. 

Perhaps  you  don't  know  the  trouble  that  has  just  hap- 
pened to  them?  Their  father  was  drowned  in  the  Willow 
Brook  last  night.    I'm  going  now  to  see  them. 


12  ADAM    BEDE A    PLAY 

DINAH. 
(With  pitying  eyes.) 

Oh,  the  poor  mother.     She  will  mourn  heavily.     I  must 
gpo  and  see  if  I  can  give  her  any  help. 
(She  rises  and  begins  to  fold  her  work.) 

MR.   IRWIN E. 
(Looking  out  the  open  door.) 

There  goes  Luke,  and  I  promised  my  sister  to  see  him 
about  his  poultry.  Mrs.  Peyser  has  some  beautiful 
speckled  hens.  I  hear  you  are  going  away  soon;  but  this 
will  rot  be  the  last  visit  you  will  pay  your  aunt — so  we 
shall  meet  again,  I  hope. 

DINAH. 

Goodby,  sir. 
(She  goes  up  the  stairs  as  Mr.  Irwine  goes  out  the  door.    Mrs. 
Poyser,  Captain  Donnithorne  and  Hetty  appear  from  the  dairy.) 
CAPTAIN    DONNITHORNE. 
I  hope  you  will  be  ready  for  a    great    holiday    on    the 
thirtieth  of  July,  Mrs.  Poyser,  when  I    come    of    age.    I 
shall  expect  you  to  be  one  of  the  guests  who  come  earliest 
and  leave  latest.    Will  you  promise  me  your  hand  for  two 
dances,  Miss  Hetty?     If  I  don't  get  your  promise  now,  I 
know  I   shall   hardly   have   a   chance,   for   all    the   smart 
young  farmers  will  take  care  to  secure  3'"ou. 
(Hetty  blushes  and  casts  down  her  eyes.) 

MRS.  POYSER. 
(Interrupting  quickly,  before  Hetty  has  time  to  answer.) 
Indeed,  sir,  you're  verj'-  kind  to  take  that  notice  of  her. 
And  I'm  sure  whenever  you're  pleased  to  dance  with  her 
she'll  be  proud  and  thankful,  if  she  stood  still  all  the  rest 
o'  the  evening. 

CAPTAIN    DONNITHORNE. 
(Determined  to  make  Hetty  look  at  him.) 

Oh,  no,  no,  that  would  be    too     cruel  to  all  the  other 
young  fellows  who  can  dance.     But  you  will  promise  me 
two  dances  won't  you? 

HETTY. 
(Dropping  a  very  pretty  little  curtsey  and   glancing   up  half- 
shyly,    half-coquettishly.) 
Yes;  thank  you,  sir. 


ADAM    BEDE A    PLAY  13 

CAPTAIN    DONNITHORNE. 

And  you  must  bring  all  your  children,  you  know,  Mrs. 
Poyser;  your  little  Totty,  as  well  as  the  boys.  I  want  all 
the  youngest  children  on  our  estate  to  be  there — all  those 
who  will  be  fine  young  men  and  women  when  I'm  a  bald 
old  fellow. 

MRS.  POYSER. 
Oh  dear,  sir,  that  'ull  be  a  long  time  first. 
CAPTAIN    DONNITHORNE. 
But  where  IS  Totty  today?     I  want  to  see  her. 
MRS.  POYSER. 

Where  is  the  little  'un,  Hetty?  She  came  in  here  not 
long  ago. 

HETTY. 
She  went  into  the  brewhouse  to  Nancy,  I  think. 
(Mrs.  Poyser  hurries  out  of  the  door.) 

CAPTAIN    DONNITHORNE. 

And  do  you  carry  the  butter  to  market  when  you've 
made  it? 

HETTY. 
Oh,  no,  sir;   not  when  it's  so  hea\v.     I'm     not     strong 
enough  to  carry  it.     Allck  takes  it  on  horseback. 
CAPTAIN    DONNITHORNE. 
No,  I'm  sure  your  pretty  arms  were  never  meant  for 
such  heavy  weights.     But  you  go  out  for  a    walk    some- 
times these  pleasant  evenings,  don't  you?    Why  don't  you 
have  a  walk  in  the  Chase  sometimes,  now  it's  so  green 
and  pleasant?    I  hardly  ever  see  you  anywhere  except  at 
home  and  church. 

HETTY. 
(Lifting  her  eyes  archly.) 

Aunt  doesn't  like  me  to  go  a- walking  only  when  I'm 
going  somewhere.  But  I  go  through  the  Chase  some- 
times. 

CAPTAIN    DONNITHORNE. 
And  don't  you  ever  go   to  see  Mrs.   Best,   our  house- 
keeper?    I  think  I  saw  you     once  in     the     housekeeper's 
room. 


14  ADAM    BEDE A    PLAY 

HETTY. 

It  isn't  Mrs.  Best,  it's  Mrs.  Pomfret,  the  lady's  maid,  as 
I  go  to  see.  She's  teaching  me  tent -stitch  and  lace- mend- 
ing.   I'm  going  to  tea  with  her  tomorrow  afternoon. 
CAPTAIN    DONNITHORNE. 
Do  you  go  every  week  to  see  Mrs.  Pomfret? 

HETTY. 
Yes,  sir;  every  Thursday. 

CAPTAIN    DONNITHORNE. 
And  she's  teaching  you  something,  is  she? 

HETTY. 
Yes,  sir,  the  lace- mending  as  she  learned  abroad,  and 
the  stocking- mending — it  looks  just  like  the  stocking,  you 
can't  tell  it's  been  mended;   and  she  teaches  me  cuttingr- 
out,  too. 

CAPTAIN    DONNITHORNE. 

Are  YOU  going  to  be  a  lady's  maid? 
HETTY. 
I  should  like  to  be  one  very  much  indeed. 
CAPTAIN    DONNITHPRNE. 
I  suppose  Mrs.  Pomfert  always  expects  you  at  a  certain 
hour? 

HETTY. 

Yes;  about  four.    That  gives  us  time  before  Miss  Don- 

nithorne's  bell  rings. 

CAPTAIN    DONNITHORNE. 

Do  you  always  come  back  through    the  Chase    In    the 

evening,  or  are  you  afraid  over  so  lonely  a  road? 

HETTY. 

Oh,  no,  sir,  it's  never  late;  I    always    set    out  by  eight 

o'clock,  and  it's  so  light  now    in    the  evening.    My  aunt 

would  be  angry  with  me  if  I  didn't  get  home  before  nine. 

CAPTAIN    DONNITHORNE. 

Perhaps  Craig,  the  gardener,  comes  to  take  care  of  you? 

HETTY. 
(Very  hastily.) 

I'm  sure  he  doesn't.    I'm  sure  he  never  did.    I  wouldn't 


ADAM    BEDE A    PLAY  J 5 

let  him.     I  don't  like  him. 
(A  tear  of  vexation  drops  down  her  cheek.) 

CAPTAIN    DONNITHORNE. 
(Putting  his  arm  around  her,  his  voice  very  gentle.) 

Why,  Hetty,  what  makes  you  cry?     I  didn't  mean  to 
vex  you.     I  wouldn't  vex  you  for  the     world,    you    little 
blossom.     Come,  don't  cry;  look  at  me,  else  I  shall  think 
you  won't  forgive  me. 
(He  lays  his  hand  on  the  arm  nearer  him  and  stoops  with  a 
look  of  entreaty.) 

See,  here  is  something  I  got  for  you  at  Rosseter  the 
last  time  I  was  there.  I  know  you  like  pretty  thingrs. 
There's  room  for  another  lock  of  hair  in  it — and  yours 
is  such  a  pretty  color.  You  must  always  think  of  me 
when  you  look  at  it.  But  don't  let  your  aunt  see  It.  She 
has  sharp  eyes. 
(He  slips  a  gold  locket  into  Hetty's  hand  as  he  speaks.) 

HETTY. 

Oh,  how  kind  ot  you,  sir.     How  beautiful  it     is. 
(She  smiles  delightedly  and  runs  to  see     the     effect     of     the 
locket  against   her   throat,   as   reflected   in   the   shining   doors   of 
the  cupboard.     She  drops  it  hastily  Into  her  apron   pocket  and 
turns  around  as  a  noise  is  heard  at  the  door.) 

MR.   IRWINE. 
(Just  showing  his  head  inside  the  door.) 
Come  along  Arthur.    I  must  be  off. 

CAPTAIN    DONNITHORNE. 

Just  ride  slowly  on,  Irwine.    I'll  overtake  you  In  three 
minutes.     I'm  going  to  speak  to  the  shepherd  about  the 
whelps.    Goodby,  Hetty;  tell  Mr.  Poyser  I  shall  come  and 
have  a  long  talk  with  him  soon. 
(Hetty  curtseys,  the  captain  goes  out  and  Hetty  goes  into  the 
dairy.     Dinah   comes   downstairs   with  her  bonnet   on  and    Mrs. 
Poyser  enters  from  the  back  yard.) 

MRS.  POYSER. 

Wherlver  Is  that  Totty?  In  the  curran'  bushes,  I'll  be 
bound.  So,  Dinah,  Mr.  Irwine  wasn't  angry,  then.  Didn't 
he  scold  you  for  preaching? 


16 


ADAM    BEF^E A    PLAY 


DINAH. 

No,  he  was  not  angry  at  all.    He  was  very  friendly  to 
me.     I  was  quite  drawn  out  to  speak  to  him. 
MRS.  POYSER. 
But  what's  your  bonnet  on  for? 

DINAH. 
Mr.  Irwine  told  me  something  that  I'm  sure  will  cause 
you  sorrow.  Thlas  Cranage  was  drowned  last  night  in  the 
Willow  Brook,  and  I'm  thinking    that  the     aged    mother 
will  be  greatly  in  need  of  comfort. 
MRS.  POYSER. 
(In  a  gentler  tone.) 

Dear  heart!  Dear  heart!     But  you  must  have  a  cup  of 
tea  first,  child.  i 

DINAH. 

I  musn't  stop  now,  aunt.     She  may  be  needing  me.     I'll 
be  back  tomorrow. 
(Dinah   goes  out.) 

MRS.  POYSER. 

Hetty,  d'you  hear  what's  happened? 
HETTY. 
(Coming  from  the   dairy.) 

No;  how  should  I  hear  anything? 
MRS.  POYSER. 
Not  as  you'd  care  much,  I  dare  say,  if  you  did  hear; 
for  you're  too  feather-headed  to  mind  if  everybody  was 
dead,  so  as  you  could  stay  up -stairs  a -dressing  yourself 
for  two  hours  by  the  clock.  Poor  Thias  Cranage-  was 
drownded  last  night  in  Willow  Brook. 

HETTY. 
(Trying  to  look  serious.) 
Oh,  how  dreadful! 
(She  smiles  at  her  image  reflected  in  the  glass  doors   of  the 
cupboard,  takes  ofE  her  cap  and  fluffs  her  hair.) 
MRS.  POYSER. 
And  I  want  you  to  go  out    right    away    and    look  for 
Totty.  wonder  the  blessed  child  isn't  drownded  long  ago, 
so  little  care  as  you  take  of  her.    And  while  you're  there. 


ADAM    BEDE A    PLAY  17 

go  and  look  at  the  curran's.    I  doubt  not  that  tJie  child- 
ren have  eaten  more  than  they've  picked. 
(Hetty  goes  out  without  making  a  reply.  Mrs.  Poyser  goes  into 
the  dairy,  but  remains  in  view  of  the  audience.     She  is  crush- 
ing a  cheese.     A  knock  sX  the  door.) 

ADAM  BEDE  (outside.) 
Mrs.  Poyser  within? 
(Adam  is  a  stalwart  fellow,  26  years  old,  six  feet  tall,  with 
dark  curling  hair,  keen  dark  eyes,  prominent  and  mobile  eye- 
brows. He  wears  a  paper  cap,  leather  breeches  and  blue 
worsted  stockings  and  carries  a  box  or  basket  of  tools  on  his 
shoulder.) 

MRS.  POYSER   (from  the  dairj'.) 

Come  in,  Mr.  Bede,  come  in.     Come  into  the  dairy,  if 
you  will,  for  I  canna  justly  leave  the  cheese. 
(Adam  walks  toward  the  dairy  and  stands  in  the  entrance.) 
MRS.  POYSER. 

Why,  you  might  think  you  was  come  to  a  dead-house. 
They're  all  i'  the  meadow;  but  Martin's  sure  to  be  in  be- 
fore long,  for  they're  leaving  the  hay  cocked  tonight, 
ready  for  carrying  first  thing  tomorrow.  And  I've  been 
forced  t'  gether  the  red  curran's  tonight.  The  fruit  al- 
ays  ripens  so  contrary  just  when  every  hand's  wanted. 
Hetty's  seein'  to  it,  for  there's  no  trustin'  the  children 
to  gether  it,  tor  they  put  more  into  their  mouths  nor  into 
the  basket;  you  might  as  well  set  the  wasps  to  gether  the 
fruit. 

ADAM. 

I  could  be  looking  at  your  spinning  wheel  then,  and  see 
what  wants  doing  to  it.  Perhaps  it  stands  in  the  house 
where  I  can  find  it. 

MRS.  POYSER. 

No,  I've  put  it  away,  but  let  it  be  till  I  can  fetch  it  an' 
show  it  you.  I'd  be  glad  now  if  you'd  go  into  the  garden, 
and  tell  Hetty  to  send  Totty  in.  I  know  Hetty's  lettin' 
her  eat  too  many  curran's,  and  there's  the  York  an'  Lank- 
ester  roses  beautiful  in  the  garden  now— you'll  like  to 
see  'em.  But  you'd  like  a  drink  o'  whey  first,  p'r'aps;  I 
know  you're  fond  o'  whey,  as  most  folks  is  when  they 
hanna  got  to  crush  it  out. 


18 


ADAM    BEDE A    PLAY 


ADAM. 

Thank  you,  Mrs.  Poyser,  a  drink  o'  whey  is  allays  a 
treat  to  me.     I'd  rather  have  it  than  beer  any  day. 
MRS.  POYSER. 
(Reaching  a  small  white  basin  from  the  shelf  and  dipping  it 
Into  the  whey  tub.) 

Ay,  ay,  the  smell  o'  bread's  sweet  t'  everybody  but  the 
baker.  A  farmhouse  is  a  fine  thing  for  them  as  look  on,  an' 
don't  know  the  liftin'  an'  the  stannin',  an'  the  worritin*  o' 
the  inside  as  belongs  to't. 

ADAM. 
Why,  Mrs.  Poyser,  you  wouldn't  like  to  live  any  place 
else  but  in  a  farm-house,  so  well  as  you  manage  it. 
(Takes  the  basin.) 
Here's  to  your  health,  and  may  you  allers  have  strength 
to  look  after  your  own  dairy,  and  set  a  pattern  t'  all  the 
farmers'  wives  in  the  country. 

MRS.  POYSER. 
(As  Adam  sets  down  the  basin.) 
Have  a  little  more,  Mr.  Bede. 

ADAM. 
No,  thank  you.     I'll  go  into  the  garden  now  and  send 
in  the  little  lass. 
(Adam  goes  out.     Mrs.   Poyser   continues   her     work     in     the 
dairy.     Mr.  Poyser  comes  in,  his  two  sons  of  9  and  7  behind  him 
and  Bartle  Massey,  the  schoolmaster,  with  him.     The  boys  have 
very  rosy  cheeks  and  black  eyes,   and  wear  little  fustian -tailed 
coats  and  knee  breeches.     Mr.  Poyser  wears  a  suit  of  drab,  with 
a  red  and  green  waistcoat.     His  watch  ribbon  is  green  with  a 
carnelian  seal  attached  and  hangs  pendent  like  a  plumb-line  from 
the  promontory  where  his  watch  pocket  is  situated.     He  wears 
grey-ribbed  stockings,  and  a  silk  handkerchief  of  a  dull  yellow 
about  his  neck. 

Bartle  Massey  has  an  aquiline  nose,  and  a  transparent  yellow 
skin  and  in  his  forehead  the  blue  veins  are  prominent.  His 
forehead  is  high  and  is  surrounded  by  thick,  bushy,  grey  hair, 
about  an  inch  long.  He  wears  spectacles,  and  walks  with  a 
knotted  stick.  Though  quite  lame,  he  still  walks  very  briskly. 
}Tis  face  is  rather  irritable.) 


ADAM    BEDE A    PLAY  19 

MR.  POYSER. 

Rachel,  here's  Mr.  Massey,  as    I've    brought    home    to 
supper.     I  hope  you've  got  one  o'  your  stuffed  chines. 
MRS.  POYSER. 
(Coming  from  the  dairy.) 

How  d'  do,  how  d'  do,  Mr.  Massey.  Mr.  Bede's  here, 
Poyser,  and  as  soon  as  Molly  and  me  can  get  ready, 
we'll  have  supper,  for  I  know  you're  tired  and  hungry. 

MR.  POYSER. 
That  I  am,  Rachel.  Rosseter  is  pretty  far. 
(Poyser  and  Bartle  Massey  seat  themselves  and  the  boys  stand 
by  Mr.  Massey,  who  talks  to  them.  During  the  subsequent  dia- 
logue, Mrs.  Poyser  and  Molly,  who  enters  from  the  dairy,  let  down 
the  table  leaf,  pull  it  out  and  commence  to  set  the  table  and  put 
out  the  supper  things.) 

MR.  POYSER. 
How's  the  milk  from  the  new  short-horn,  Rachel? 
MRS.  POYSER. 
I've   twice  as  much   butter  from  that   little   yallow   cow 
as  doesn't  give  half  the  milk. 

MR.  POYSER. 
"Why,  thee't  not  like  the  women  in  general;    they  like 
the  short-horns,  as  give    such     a    lot    o'     milk.    There's 
Chowne's  wife  wants  him  to  buy  no  other  sort. 
MRS.  POYSER. 
What's  it  sinnify  what  Chowne's  wife  likes?     A  poor 
soft  thing,  wi'  no  more  head-piece  nor  a  sparrow.     She'd 
take  a  big  cullender  to  strain  her  lard  wi',  and  then  won- 
der as  the  scratchin's  run  through.     Her  cheese  rose  like 
a  loaf  in  a  tin  last  year,  an*  then  she  talks  o'  the  weather 
bein'  i'  fault,  as  there's  folks  'ud  stand    on     their    heads 
and  then  say  the  fault  was  i'  their  boots. 
MR.    MASSEY. 
I  dare  say,  she's  like  the  rest     o'     the     women— thinks 
two  and  two'll  come  to  make  Ave  if  she  bothers  enough 
about  it. 

MRS.  POYSER. 
Ay,  ay,  one  'ud  think,  an'  hear  some  folks  talk,  as  the 


aO  ADAM    BEDE A    PLAY 

men  war  cute  enough  to  count  the  corns  in  the  bag  o' 
wheat  wi'  only  smelling  at  it.     They  can  see  through  a 
barn  door,   THEY   can.     Perhaps   that's  the   reason  they 
see  so  little  o'  this  side  on't. 
(Martin  I^oyser  shakes  with  delighted  but  silent  laughter.) 

MR.    MASSEY. 

(Smilingly.) 

Ah,  the  women  are  quick  enough — they're  quick  enough. 
They  know  the  rights  of  a  story  before  they  hear  it,  and 
can  tell  a  man  what  his  thoughts  are  before  he  knows 
'em  himself. 

MRS.  POYSER. 

Like  enough,  for  the  men  are  mostly  so  slow,  their 
thoughts  overrun  'em  an'  they  only  catch  'em  by  the 
tail.  I  can  count  a  stocking- top  while  a  man's  getting's 
tongue  ready;  an'  when  he  outs  wi'  his  speech  at  last, 
there's  little  broth  to  be  made  on't.  It's  your  dead  chicks 
take  the  longest  hatchin'.  However,  I'm  not  denyin'  the 
women  are  foolish:  God  Almighty  made  'em  to  match 
the  men. 

MR.    MASSEY. 

Match!  Ay,  as  vinegar  matches  one's  teeth.  If  a  man 
says  a  word  his  wife'll  match  it  with  a  contradiction;  if 
he's  a  mind  for  hot  meat,  his  wife'll  match  him  with 
whimpering.  She's  such  a  match  as  th'  horse-fly  is  to 
th'  horse;  she's  got  the  right  venom  to  sting  him  with 
— the  right  venom  to  sting  him  with. 
MRS.  POYSER. 

Yes,  I  know  what  the  men  like — a  poor  soft  as  'ud  sim- 
per at  'em  like  the  picture  o'  the  sun,  whether  they  did 
right  or  wrong,  an'  say  thank  you'  for  a  kick,  an'  pretend 
she  dinna  know  which  end  she  stood  uppermost,  till  her 
husband  told  her.  That's  what  a  man  wants  in  a  wife 
mostly:  he  wants  to  make  sure  'o  one  fool  as'll  tell  him 
he's  wise.  But  there's  some  men  can  do  wi'out  that — they 
think  so  much  o'  themselves  a'ready;  an'  that's  how  it 
is  there's  old  bachelors. 

MR.  POYSER. 
(Jocosely,    and   looking   admiringly   at   his   wife.) 

Come,  Bartle,  you  mun  get  married  pretty  quick,  else 


ADAM    BEDE A    PLAY  2/ 

you'll  be  set  down  for  an  old  bachelor:  an'  you  see  what 
the  women'll  think  on  you.  Now  I  like  a  woman  o'  sper- 
rit — a  cliverish  woman — a  managing  woman. 

MR.    MASSEY. 

You're  out  there,  Poyser,  you're  out  there.  You  judge 
o'  your  own  garden  stuff  on  a  better  plan  than  that:  you 
pick  the  things  for  what  they  can  excel  in — for  what 
they  can  excel  in.  You  don't  value  your  peas  for  their 
roots,  or  your  carrots  for  their  flowers.  Now  that's  the 
way  you  should  choose  women;  their  cleverness'll  never 
come  to  much — never  come  to  much;  but  they  make  ex- 
cellent  simpletons,    ripe,    and    strong-fl.<ivored. 

MR.  POYSER. 

(Throwing  himself  back  and  looking  merrily  at  his  wife.> 
What  dost  say  to  that" 

MRS.  POYSER. 
(A  dangerous  fire  kindling  in  her  eyes.) 

Say!     Why,  I  can  see  a  cat  I'  the  dairy  wi'out  wonder- 
ing what  she's  come  for.     Some  folk's  tongues  are  like 
the  clocks  as  run  on  strikin',  not  to  tell  you  the  time  o' 
day,  but  because  there's  summat  wrong  i'  their  own  in- 
side. 
(Totty  comes  running  in,  in  a     pink     pinafore,     stained  with 
currants.     Her  mouth   and   hands   are   also   stained.     Mrs.   Poy- 
ser stops  and  her  voice  changes  as  she  stoops  to  pick  up  Totty.) 
Bless  her  sweet  face!     The  child's  allays  i'  mischief  if 
your  back's  turned  a  minute.     What   shall   I  do  to  you, 
you   naughty,   naughty  gell?     Molly,   take   the   child   and 
put  her  to  bed.     She's  too  full  of  curran's    to    want    her 
supper.  I 

(Molly  goes  upstairs  with  Totty  in  her  arms.  Adam  Bede 
and  Hetty  come  in  together  at  the  door.  Adam  carries  a  big 
basket  of  currants,  which  he  sets  down.  He  shakes  hands  with 
Mr.  Poyser  and  Bartle  Massey  and  Hetty  curtseys  to  the  school- 
master.) 

MR.   POYSER. 

Well,  Adam,  I'm  glad  to  see  ye.  What,  ye've  been  help- 
ing Hetty  to  gether  the  currants,  eh?  Come,  sit  ye  down, 
sit  ye  down.     Why,  it's  pretty  near  a  three-week  since 


22  ADAM    BEDE A    PLAY 


y'  had  your  supper  wi'  us;  and  the  missis  has  got  one  of 
her  rare  stuffed  chines.     I'm  glad  ye're  come. 
(Mr.   Poyser  and  Bartle  Massey     talk     together,     while     Mrs. 
Poyser  goes  on  arrangring  the  supper  table.) 

ADAM. 

(Taking  a  rose  from  his  coat  and  handing  it  to  Hetty.) 
How  pretty  the  roses  are  now!     See:   I  stole  the  pret- 
tiest, but  I  didna  mean  to  keep  it  myself.     Stick  it  in  your 
frock,  and  then  you  can  put  it  in  water  after.    It  'ud  be 
a  pity  to  let  it  fade. 
(Hetty  smiles  as  she  takes  the  rose.     She  is  without  her  cap 
now,  and  she  sticks  the  rose  in  her  curly  hair  just  above  the  left 
ear,  and  looks  at  Adam  coquettishly.) 

ADAM. 

(Looking  displeased.) 

Ah,  that's  like  the  ladies  in  the  pictures  at  the  Chase.  . 
They've  mostly  got  flowers,  or  gold  things  i'  their  hair, 
but  somehow  I  don't  like  to  see  'em;  they  allays  put  me  i' 
mind  o'  the  painted  woman  outside  the  shows  at  Tred- 
dles'on  fair.  What  can  a  woman  have  to  set  her  off  bet- 
ter than  her  own  hair,  when  it  curls  so,  like  j'ours?  If 
a  woman's  young  and  pretty,  I  think  you  can  see  her 
good  looks  all  the  better  for  her  being  plain  dressed. 
Why,  Dinah  Morris  looks  very  nice,  for  all  she  wears 
such  a  plain  cap  and  gown.  It  seems  to  me  as  a  woman's 
face  doesna  want  flowers;  it's  almost  like  a  flower  itself, 
(tenderly)   I'm  sure  yours  is. 

HETTY. 
(Pouting  and  taking  the  rose  out  of  her  hair.) 

Oh,  very  well.     I'll  put  one  o'     Dinah's  caps  on,       and 
you'll  see  if  I  look  better  in  it. 

ADAM. 

(Anxiously.) 

Nay,  nay,  I  don't  want  you  to  wear  a  Methodist  cap 
like  Dinah's.  I  dare  say  it's  a  very  ugly  cap.  and  I  used 
to  think  as  it  was  nonsense  for  her  to  dress  different  t' 
other  people;  but  I  never  rightly  noticed  her  till  last 
night,  and  then  I  thought  the  cap  seemed  to  fit  her  face 
somehow  as  th'  acorn- cap  fits  th'  acorn,  and  I  shouldn't 


ADAM    BEDE A    PLAY  23 


like  to  see  her  so  well  without  it.  But  you've  got  another 
sort  o'  face;  I'd  have  you  just  as  you  are  now,  without 
anything  to  interfere  with  your  own  looks, 
MRS.  POYSER. 
Hetty,  run  upstairs,  and  send  Molly  down.  She's  put- 
ting Totty  to  bed,  and  I  v,ant  her  to  draw  th*  ale,  for 
Nancy's  busy  yet  i'  the  dairy.  You  can  see  to  the  child. 
But  whativer  did  you  let  her  run  away  from  you  along 
wi'  Tommy  for,  and  stuff  herself  wi'  fruit  as  she  can't 
eat  a  bit  o'  good  victual? 

MRS.  POYSER. 
Come  Mr.  Bede,  come     Mr.     Massey.    I'm     sure    ye've 
been  waiting  long  enough. 
(They  seat  themselves,  the  boys  at  either  side  of  their  mother, 
with  a  place  for  Hetty  between  her  uncle  and  Adam  Bede.     All 
the  company  except  Mr.  Poyser  have  their  backs  or  sides  toward 
the  outer  door.     Molly  comes  downstairs  and  goes  out  the  door 
as  they  sit  down  to  supper.) 

MRS.  POYSER. 
(Dispensing  slices  of  stuffed  chine  (backbone  of  beef),  cold  veal 
and   fresh   lettuce.     The   table   cloth   is   of   whitey-brown   home- 
f^pun  and  the  service  of  shining  pewter.) 

What  a  time  that  gell  is  drawing  th'  ale,  to  be  sure.  I 
think  she  sets  the  jug  under  and  forgets  to  turn  the  tap, 
as  there's  nothing  you  can't  believe  o'  them  wenches; 
they'll  set  th'  empty  kettle  on  the  fire'  and  then  come  an 
hour  after  to  see  if  the  water  boils. 

MR.  POYSER. 

Perhaps  she's  drawing  for  the  men,too.     Thee  shouldst 
ha'  told  her  to  bring  our  jug  first. 
MRS.  POYSER. 

Told  her?  Yis  I  might  spend  all  the  wind  i'  my  body, 
an'  take  the  bellows,  too,  if  I  was  to  tell  them  gells  every- 
thing as  their  own  sharpness  wonna  tell'em.  Mr.  Massey, 
will  you  take  some  vinegar  with  your  lettuce?  Ay,  you're 
1'  the  right  not.  It  spoils  the  flavor  o'  the  chine,  to  my 
thinking.  It's  poor  eating  where  the  flavor  o'  the  meat 
lies  i'  the  cruets.  There's  folks  as  make  bad  butter,  and 
trusten  to  the  salt  t'  hide  it. 


ADAM    BEDE A    PLAY 


(Molly  enters  carrying  a  large  jug,  two  small  mugs  and  four 
drinking  cans,  all  full  of  ale.  Her  mouth  is  wide  open  as  she 
walks  with  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  double  cluster  of  vessels  in 
her  hands.) 

MRS.  POYSER. 
(Severely.) 

Molly,  I  niver  knew  your  equils — to  think  o'  your  poor 
mother  as  is  a  widow,  an'  I  took  you  wi'  as  good  a'  no 
character,  an'  the  time  an  'times  I've  told  you. 
(Molly  starts  and  hastens  her  steps  toward  a  far  table  where 
she  may  set  down  her  cans,  catches  her  foot  in  her  apron  and 
falls  with  a  crash  into  a  pool  of  beer.     There  is  a  tittering  ex- 
plosion from  the  two  small  boys.     Mr.  Poyser  ejaculates,   "Ello," 
and  Bartle  Massey  settles  back  in  his  chair  with  an  "I-told-you- 
so"  expression.) 

MRS.  POYSER. 

(In  a  cutting  tone,  rising  and  going  toward  the  cupboard, 
while  Molly  with  a  doleful  face  begins  to  pick  up  the  pieces  of 
crockery.) 

There  you  go!  It's  what  I  told  you  'ud  come  over  and 
over  again;  and  there's  your  month's  wage  gone,  an' 
more,  to  pay  for  the  jug  as  I've  had  i'  the  house  this  ten 
year,  and  nothing  ever  happened  to  't  before;  but  the 
crockery  you've  broke  sin'  here  in  th'  house  you've  been 
'ud  make  a  parson  swear — God  forgi'  me  for  saying  so. 
Anybody'd  think  you'd  got  the  St.  Vitus'  dance,  to  see 
the  things  you've  thro  wed  down. 
(Molly  begins  to  cry,  and  as  the  beer  is  flowing  toward  the 
feet  of  the  guests  converts  her  apron  into  a  mop. 

MRS.  POYSER  opening  the  cupboard  and  turning  a  blighting 
eye  upon  her.) 

Ah,  you'll  do  no  good  wi'  crying  an'  making  more  wet 
to  wipe  up.     It's  all  your  own  wilfulness,  as  I  tell  you, 
for  there's  nobody  no  call  to  break  anything  if  they'll  go 
the  right  way  to  work.    But  wooden  folks  would  need  ha* 
wooden  things  t'     handle.     And     here     must  I  take     the 
brown -and -white  jug,  as  it's  never  been  used  three  times 
this  year  and  go  down  i'  th  cellar  myself. 
(Mrs.   Poyser  turns  round  from  the  cupboard  with   a  brown- 
and- white       jug       in       her       hand.        She       stares       at       the 
farther  end  of  the  kitchen,  where  Hetty     has     appeared   like  a 


ADAM    BEDE A    PLAY  25 

wraith  in  Dinah's  prim  cap  and  gown  with  her  hair  parted  and 
smoothed  down.  The  jug  falls  to  the  ground,  parting  forever 
from  its  spout  and  handle.  The  others  have  not  seen  Hetty. 
The  hoys  laugh  loudly  at  their  mother.) 

MRS.  POYSER. 

(In  a  lowered  tone,  with  a  moment's  bewildered  glance  around 
the  room.) 

Did  iver  anybody  see  the  like?  The  jugs  are  bewitched, 
I  think.  It's  them  nasty  glazed  handles — they  slip  o'er 
the  finger  like  a  snail. 

MR.  POYSER. 

(Joining  in  the  laugh.) 

Why,  thees't  let  thy  own  whip  fly  in  thy  face. 
MRS.    POYSER    (angrily.) 
It's  all  very  fine  to  look  on  and  grin,  but  there's  times 
when  the  crockery  seems  alive,  an'  flies  out  o'  your  hand 
like  a  bird.  What  is  to  be  broke  will  be  broke,  for  I  never 
'Iropped  a  thing  i'  my  life  for  want  o'  holding  it,  else  I 
should  never  have  kept  the  crockery  all  these  years  as  I 
bought  at  my  own  wedding.     And,  Hetty,  are  you  mad? 
Whativer  do  you  mean  by  coming  down  i'  that  way,  and 
making  one  think  as  there's  a  ghost     a-walking     i'     th' 
house? 
(There     is       a  fresh  outbreak  of  laughter  dur'ng  Mrs.  Povser's 
speech,  as  all  turn  and  look  at  Hetty.  The  boys  leave  their  chairs 
and   danc3  around  Hetty,   jumping     and     clapping  their   hands. 
During  the  confusion  Mrs.  Poyser  reaches  down  a  great  pewter 
measure  from  the   cupboard.     This  she   hands  to   Molly   who   is 
going  out  with  fragments  of  her  mugs.) 

MR.  POYSER. 

(Chuckling.) 

Why,  Hetty,  lass,  are  ye  turned  Methodis?  You  must 
pull  your  face  a  deal  longer  before  you'll  do  for  one; 
mustna  she,  Adam?  How  come  ye  to  put  them  things  on, 
eh? 

HETTY. 
(Who  has  seated  herself  demurely.) 

Adam  said  he  liked  Dinah's  cap  and  gown  better  nor 
my  clothes.     He  says  folk  look  better  in  ugly  clothes. 


ADAM    BEDE A    I'LAY 


ADAM. 

(Looking  at  her  admiringly.) 

Nay,  nay.  I  only  said  they  seemed  to  suit  Dinah.  But 
if  I'd  said  you'd  look  pretty  in  'em  I  should  ha'  said 
nothing  but  what  was  true. 

MR.    MAS8EY. 

(To  Mrs.  Poyser,  who  has  seated  herself.) 

"Why,  you  thought  Hetty  war  a  ghost;  you  look'd  as 
scared    as    scared. 

MRS.  POYSER. 

(With  acidity.) 

It  little  sinnifies  how  I  looked.  Looks  'ull  mend  no 
jugs,  nor  laughing  neither,  as  I  see.  Mr.  Bede,  I'm  sorry 
you've  to  wait  so  long  for  your  ale,  but  it's  coming  in  a 
minute.  Make  yourself  at  home  wi'  the  cold  potatoes,  Mr. 
Massey,  I  know  you  like  'em.  Tommy,  I'll  send  you  to  bed 
this  minute,  if  you  don't  give  over  laughing.  What  is 
there  to  laugh  at,  I  should  like  to  know?  I'd  sooner  cry 
nor  laugh  at  the  sight  o'  that  poor  thing's  cap;  and 
there's  them  as  'ud  be  better  if  they  could  make  their- 
selves  like  her  i'  more  ways  nor  putting  on  her  cap.  It 
little  becomes  anybody  1*  this  house  to  make  fun  o'  my 
sister's  child,  an'  I  know  one  thing  as  if  trouble  was  to 
come,  (tears  in  her  voice)  we  might  be  glad  to  get  sight 
o'  Dinah's  cap  again,  wi'  her  own  face  under  it,  border  or 
no  border.  For  she's  one  o'  them  things  as  looks  the 
brightest  on  a  rainy  day,  and  loves  you  the  best  when 
you're  most  i'  need  on't  . 

MR.  POYSER. 
(To  Hetty.)  , 

You'd  better  take  the     things     ofC     again,  my  lass;    it 
hurts  your  aunt  to  see  'em. 
(Hetty  goes  upstairs.     Molly  brings  in  the     ale     and     pours  it 
and  leaves  the  stage.) 

MRS.  POYSER. 

You  heerd  about  poor     Thias     Cranage,     Mr.     Bede? 

Dinah's  gone  to  the  poor  mother,  though     I     doubt     not 

that  his  death's  a  relief    to     the    family,  and  he  such  a 

drunkard.     (To  her  husband).     An'  Captain  Donnithome 


ADAM    BEDE A    PLAY  27 


and  Mr.  Irwine  were  here  today.  The  captain  was  most 
pleasant,  and  Mr.  Irwine  was  that  agreeable  to  Dinah. 
When  I  saw  'em-a-comin'  I'd  no  doubt  but  they'd  come  to 
chide  her  for  preaching  on  the  green.  The  captain  In- 
sisted on  seein'  the  dairy. 

MR.  POYSER. 
I'll  warrant  he  said    that    Mrs.     Satchell's     cream  and 
butter  woudn't  bear  comparison  with  yours. 
MRS.  POYSER. 
"Well,  he  did  say  summat  like  that,  and  I  told  him  that 
I  couldn't  say,  as  I  seldom  saw     other     folks'     butter — 
though  there's  some  on  it  as  one's  no  need  to  see — the 
smell's  enough. 

MR.    MASSEY. 
Mr.  Irwine  must  a'     been     surprised     to     see  Dinah  so 
young  and  comely.     He  likes  the  young  people. 
MR.  POYSER. 
It's  a  poor  look-out  when  th'  ould  folks  doesna  like  the 
young  uns. 

MRS.   POYSER. 
Ay,  it's  ill  livin'  in  a  hen-roost  for     them     as     doesn't 
like  fleas.     We've  all  had  our     turn     at     bein'     young,  I 
reckon. 
(Adam   rises   from   the   table,    as    does    Mr.    Massey.    Hetty   is 
just  coming  down  stairs.) 

ADAM. 
I  shall  go  a  step  farther,  to  see    Mester    Burge,  for  he 
wasn't  at  church,  and  I've  not  seen  him  for  a  week  past. 
I've  never  hardly  known  him  to  miss  church  before. 
MRS.  POYSER. 
But  you'll  never  think  o'  going  there    at    this    hour  o' 
the  night? 
(It   is   still  twilight,  about   8   o'clock.) 

ADAM. 

Oh,  Mr.  Burge  sits  up  late.    He's  never  In  bed  till  It's 
gone  eleven. 

MRS.  POYSER. 
I  wouldna  have  him  live     wi'     me,     then,     a- dropping 


ADAM    BEDE A    PLAY 


candle -grease  about,  as  you're  like  to  tumble  down  o'  the 
floor  the  first  thing  i'  the  morning. 

MR.   POYSER. 

Ay,  eleven  o'clock's  late — it's  late.  I  ne'er  sot  up  so  1' 
my  life,  not  to  say  as  it  warna  a  marr'in,  or  a  christenin', 
or  wake,  or  th'  harvest  supper.     Eleven  o'clock's  late. 

ADAM. 

(Laughingly.) 

Why,  I  sit  up  till  after  twelve  often,  but  it  isn't  to  eat 
and  drink  extry,  it's  to  work  extry. 

ADAM   AND   MASSEY. 
Goodnight,   Mrs.   Poyser.     Goodnight,   Hetty. 
(Hetty  smiles  and  shakes  hands  with  them.) 

MR.   POYSER. 
(Holding  out  a  large  hand.) 

Come  again,  come  again,  both. 
(Adam  and  Massey  go  out.) 

MR.   POYSER. 
Ay,  think  o'  that,  now.     Sitting  up  till  past  twelve  to 
do  extry  work.    Ye'll  not  find  many  men  o'  six- an' -twenty 
as  'ull  do  to  put  i'  the  shafts  wi  'him.  If  you  catch  Adam 
for  a  husband,  Hetty,  you'll  ride  'i  your  own  spring- cart 
some  day,  I'l  be  your  warrant. 
(Hetty  tosses  her  head  and  puts  her  hand  in  her  pocket  where 
the  locket  is.) 

MRS.  POYSER. 
Go  eat  your  supper,  Hetty. 

HETTY. 
I    don't    want    any    supper. 

MRS.  POYSER. 
Why,  what  nonsense  that  is  to  talk.    Do  you  think  you 
can   live   wi'out   eatin',     and     nourish     your     inside   wi' 
stickin'  red  ribbons  on  your  head?  Go  an'  get  your  supper 
this  minute,  child. 
(Hetty  eats  a  little.) 

MR.   POYSER. 
Come  Rachel,  thee't  tired.     It's  time  thee  wast  in  bed. 
Thee't  bring  on  the  pain  in  thy  side  again. 


ADAM    BEDE A    PLAY 


MRS.  POYSER. 
Get  me  the  matches  down  Hetty,  for  I  must  have  the 
rushlight  burning  i'  my  room.  You  may  make  the  door  fast 
now       Poyser.     I   declare,    Tommy's    asleep    already. 

MR.   POYSER. 

(Rolling  the  heavy  wooden  bolts  in  the  house  door  winding  the 
clock  and  looking  to  the  shutters,  while  the  twilight  gathers. 
Hetty  still  lingers  with  a  far-away  glance.) 

Come,  Hetty,  get  to  bed.     You  did  na'  mean  any  harm, 
but  your  aunt's  been     worritted     today.     Goodnight,  my 
wench,  goodnight. 
(Mrs.  Poyser  is  slowly  ascending  the  stairs,     with     her     arm 
around  the  sleepy  Tommy.     The  other     boy     is     rubbing  his 
eyes.     Martin  Poyser  follows  his  wife  and  children     and     Hetty 
goes  last,  taking  out  her  locket  to  look  at  It,  while  the  twilight 


deepens  in  the  room,  and 

The  Curtain  Falls. 


^  ACT    li.  j 


(PTiACE— The  entrance  hall  of  Donnithorne  Hall  in  Stafford- 
shire. TIME— July  30,  1799.  The  lofty  walls  and  ceiling  are 
ornamented  with  stucco  angels  with  trumpets  and  flower 
wreaths.  Great  medallions  of  heroes  on  the  wall  alternate  with 
niches  in  which  stand  statues.  The  whole  place  is  decorated  with 
green  boughs,  for  this  is  the  night  of  the  young  squire's  coming 
of  age.  At  the  right  of  the  stage  goes  up  to  the  second  story 
a  wide  stone  staircase,  coming  well  out  into  the  hall.  The 
stairs  are  covered  with  cushions  for  the  children  and  serving 
maids  who  are  to  sit  here  to  see  the  dancing.  The  room  is  lit 
with  many  colored  lamps  hidden  among  the  green  boughs  and 
giving  an  air  of  festivity.  At  the  back  of  the  stage  is  a  raised 
dais  on  which  the  gentle  people  sit,  and  on  it,  as  the  curtain 
rises,  is  seen  Miss  Lydia  Donnithorne,  a  slender  maiden  lady 
of  about  fifty  and  Arthur's  aunt.  She  is  elaborately  gowned  in 
a  stiff  yellow  brocade  with  jewels.  Mrs.  Irwine,  the  mother  of 
the  rector,  sits  with  her.  Mrs.  Irwine  is  seventy,  exceedingly 
handsome  and  stately,  with  splendid  rings  on  her  old  brown 
hands,  a  sweeping  gown  of  lavender  brocade  and  filmy  black 
lace  that  falls  over  her  white  hair  and  veils  her  face  and  neck.  The 
old  Squire  Donnithorne,  a  man  of  seventy,  in  black  evening 
dress  of  the  period  and  leaning  on  a  stick,  stands  by  the  dais, 
which  is  bordered  by  hothouse  plants.  At  the  left  rear  of  the 
stage  is  the  entrance  door,  and  at  this  door,  as  the  curtain  rises, 
stand  Captain  Arthur  Donnithorne  and  Mr.  Irwine  receiving 
the  tenants.  Arthur  wears  the  uniform  of  a  Captain  in  the 
Staffordshire  militia,  and  the  rector  is  in  black  evening  dress  of 
the  time.     His  hair  is  powdered  and  tied  with  a  ribbon  as  before. 

The  tenants  enter  with  much  laughter.  Their  faces  are 
slightly  flushed,  as  they  have  just  come  from  the  tenant's  din- 
ner, also  served  at  the  Hall,  of  which  they  are  talking.  There 
are  several  well-to-do  farmers  with  their  wives  and  daughters, 
all   well   and   gaily  dressed— for   only   the   principal   tenants   are 


ADAM    BEDE A    PLAY  31 

bidden  to  the  dance.  The  servants  and  children  are  conducted 
to  the  stairway.  The  men  and  women  are  hatless,  having  left 
their  outer  wraps  where  they  dined.  First  to  enter  and  shake 
hands  with  the  captain  and  rector  are  Bartle  Massey  and  Adam 
Bede.  Bartle  and  Adam  wear  their  Sunday  clothes,  with  long 
coats  and  knee  breeches.  Bartle's  is  black,  Adam's  brown. 
Both  wear  bright  waistcoats  and  stockings,  the  color  of  their 
clothes.  They  salute  the  ladies  on  the  dais  and  then  come  al- 
most to  the  front  of  the  stage,  near  the  stairway  and  where  the 
children  are  to  sit,  and  facing  the  door  by  which  the  tenants 
are  coming  in.  These  do  not  come  In  so  rapidly  but  what  the 
two  men  have  an  opportunity  for  a  few  words  of  conversation.) 

BARTLE    MASSEY. 

There's  something  in  the  wind — ^there's  something 
in  the  wind.  The  Captain  meant  something  by  asking 
you  here  tonight  Adam — you've  never  danced  here  be- 
fore. 

ADAM. 

Why,  yes:  I'll  tell  you,  because  I  believe  you  can  keep  a 
still  tongue  in  your  head  if  you  like;  and  I  hope  you'll 
not  let  drop  a  word  till  it's  common  talk,  for  I've  par- 
ticular reasons  against  its  being  known. 

BARTLE. 

Trust  to  me,  my  boy,  trust  to  me.  I've  got  no  wife  to 
worm  it  out  of  me,  and  then  run  out  and  cackle  it  in 
everybody's  hearing.  If  you  trust  a  man  let  him  be  a 
bachelor — let  him  be  a  bachelor. 

ADAM. 

Well,  then,  it  was  so  far  settled  yesterday,  that  I'm  to 
take  the  management  o'  the     woods.     The     captain     sent 
for  me,  t'  offer  it  me,  and  I've  agreed  to't.     But  if  any- 
body asks   any   questions,   just  you  take  no  notice,   and 
turn  the  talk  to  something  else,  and  I'll  be  obliged. 
(During  this  the  Poysers  have  come  in— Mr.  and  Mrs.  Poyser, 
Hetty,  the  two  boys  and  Molly  with  Totty.     Mr.  Poyser  and  the 
two  boys  are  dressed  as  in  the  first  act,  but  Mrs.  Poyser  wears 
an  ample  gown  of  the  most  vivid  pea  green  poplin— a  beautiful 
shade.     Totty  wears  white  and  Hetty  looks  as  though  she  were 
made   of  roses.     Her   frock   has     pink     polka-dots      (or     rosea) 


32  ADAM    BEDE A    PLAY 

sprinkled  on  a  white  cotton  ground,  her  sleeves  are  short  and 
her  neck  low  and  a  fichu  of  real  lace  (white)  is  about  her 
shoulders.  She  wears  white  silk  stockings  and  little  buckled 
shoes  with  red  heels,  and  in  her  hair  is  a  knot  of  black  velvet 
ribbon  and  a  pink  rose.  Her  cheeks  are  very  pink,  her  neck 
and  arms  very  white;  her  hands  not  so  white,  for  she  does 
much  work.  Around  her  bare  neck  is  a  string  of  dark  brown 
berries  or  beads  which  falls  out  of  sight  inside  the  front  ol 
her  bodice. 

Mr.  Poyser  joins  Adam  and  Bartle.  Molly  and  Hetty  and  the 
children  go  to  the  stairway.  Mrs.  Poyser  talks  with  the  other 
tenants'  wives.  During  the  conversation  which  follows,  Totty 
.!3  very  cross  and  fractious  and  Is  handed  from  Molly  to  Hetty 
and  back  again.  Both  girls  try  vainly  to  quiet  and  amuse  Totty, 
who  is  distinctly  cross.) 

MR.   POYSER. 
What's  this  I  hear,  Adam,  what's  this  I  hear  about  you 
and  the  woods?     It's  a  fine  step  up  in  the  world  for  you, 
my  lad.     You'll  be  your  own  master  now,  and  soon  be 
taking  a  wife. 

ADAM. 

(With  a  glance  at  Hetty.) 

A  working  man  'ud  be  badly  off  without  a  wife  to  see 
to  th'  house  and  the  victual  and  make  things  clean  and 
comfortable. 

BARTLE. 

Nonsense,  it's  the  silliest  lie  a  sensible  man  like  you 
ever  believed,  to  say  a  woman  makes  a  house  comfort- 
able. It's  a  story  got  up  because  the  women  are  there 
and  something  must  be  found  for  'em  to  do.  I  tell  you 
that  a  woman'll  bake  a  pie  every  week  of  her  life  and 
never  come  to  see  that  the  hotter  the  oven  the  shorter 
the  time.  I  don't  say  but  what  God  might  have  made 
Eve  to  be  a  companion  of  Adam  in  Paradise;  there  was 
no  cooking  to  be  spoiled  there  and  no  women  to  cackle 
with,  though  you  see  what  mischief  she  did  as  soon  as 
she'd  an  opportunity,  but  it's  an  impious,  unscriptural 
opinion  to  say  a  woman's  a  blessing  to  a  man  now; 
you  might  as  well  say  adders  and  wasps  are  a  bless- 
ing, when  they're  only  the  evils  that  belong  to  a  state 


ADAM    BEDE — A    PLAY 


of  probation,  which  it's  lawful  for  a  man  to  keep  as  clear 
of  as  he  can  i'  this  life,  hoping  to  get  quit  of  'em  for- 
ever in  another — hoping  to  get  quit  of  'em  forever  in 
another. 

ADAM. 

Nay,  Mr.  Massey,  don't  be  so  hard  on  the  creatures 
God  has  made  to  be  companions  for  us  (glancing  at 
Hetty).  God  bless  her!  I'd  make  her  life  a  happy  'un  if 
a  strong  arm  to  work  for  her  and  a  heart  to  love  her 
could  do  it. 

BARTLE. 
(With  a  gesture  that  takes  in  the  room.) 

Oh,  these  women — they've  got  no  headpieces  to  nour- 
ish, so  their  food  all  runs  to  fat  or  brats.  Simple  ad- 
dition enough!  Add  one  fool  to  another  fool  and  in  six 
years'  time  six  fools  more — they're  all  of  one  denomina- 
tion, big  and  little's  nothing  to  do  with  the  sum. 
(Mrs.    Poyser   joins    the    group.) 

MR.  POYSER. 
Hast  heard  the  news  about  Adam? 

MRS.  POYSER. 
About  the  woods?     Ay,  I've  long  suspected  it. 

MR.   POYSER. 
Thee  never  saidst  a  word  to  me  about  it. 

MRS.  POYSER. 
Well,   I  aren't  like  a  bird-clapper,  forced  to  make   a 
rattle  when  the  wind  blows. 

HETTY, 
Oh,  dear,  aunt,  I  wish  you'd  speak  to  Totty;  she  keeps 
putting  her  legs   up  so  and   mussing  my  frock. 
MRS.   POYSER. 
What's  the  matter  wi'  the  child?    She  can  nlver  please 
you.    Let  her  come  by  the  side  o'  me.    I  can  put  up  with 
her. 
(Draws   Totty  to   her.     Hetty   turns   smiling  toward  a   young 
farmer  who  ust  come  up  to  her  and  chats  with  him. 

Mrs.  Peyser  chats  with  her  husband,  the  others  having  turned  to 
speak  to  some  of  the  arriving  tenants.) 


34  ADAM     BEDE A    PLAY 

Hetty's  no  better  nor  a  peacock,  as  'ud  strut  about 
on  the  wall  and  spread  its  tail  when  the  sun  shone  if  all 
the  folks  i'  the  parish  was  dying;  there's  nothing  seems 
to  give  her  a  turn  i'  th*  inside,  not  even  when  we  thought 
Totty  had  tumbled  into  the  pit.  It's  what  rag  she  can 
get  to  stick  on  her  as  she's  thinking  on  from  morning 
till  night;  as  I  often  ask  her  if  she  wouldn't  like  to  be 
the  scare- crow  1'  the  field,  for  then  she'd  be  made  o* 
rags  inside  and  out.  It's  my  belief  her  heart's  as  hard 
as  a  pibble. 

MR.  POYSER. 

Nay,  nay,  thee  mustn't  judge  Hetty  too  hard.     Them 
young  gells  are  like  th'     unripe     £?rain — they'll     take     a 
good  meal  by  and  by,  but  they're  squashy  as  yit.     Thee't 
see  Hetty'U  be  all  right  when  she's  got  a  good  husband 
an'  children  of  her  own. 
(They  turn  as  the  old  squire  comes  up  on  his  way  around 
the   hall.     He   bows     punctiliously,   and     addresses     them     with 
elaborate  civility.) 

SQUIRE    DONNITHORNE. 
Good  evening,  Mrs.  Poyser.    I  hope  that  your  health  Is 
much  Improved.      You  must  be     sure    to     take  the  cold 
baths  which  I  recommended  to  you  and  keep  away  from 
the  drugs.     That's  what  I  do — keep  away  from  the  drugs. 

MRS.   POYSER. 

t 

(Curtesying  deeply  as   the   squire   passes  on.) 

Your  sarvant,  sir.     (To  her  husband.)     I'll  lay  my  life 
he's  brewing  some  nasty  turn  against  us.     Old   Harry 
doesna  wag  his  tall  so  for  nothin'. 
(All  the  tenants   having   come   in.    Captain   Donnithorne   and 
the  rector  are  making  the     round  of  the   Hall,     chatting     with 
everybody.     They  pause  before  the   group  of  the   Poysers   and 
Massey  and  Adam.) 

ARTHUR   (to  Mr.  Poyser.) 
V\^ell,  Poyser,  that  was  a  very  fine  speech  you  made  at 
the  dinner,  and  I  tell  you  I  shall  always  remember  and 
try  to  live  up  to  some  of  the  things  you  said. 
MR.  POYSER. 
Well,  sir,  as  I  said  at  dinner,  "You  speak  fair  and  you 
act  fair,  an*  we're  joyful  when  we  look  forward  to  your 


ADAM    BEDE A    PLAY  35 

being  our  landlord,  for  we  b'lieve  you  mean  to  do  right 
by  everybody  an'  'ull  make  no  man's  bread  bitter  to 
him  if  you  can  help  it." 

ARTHUR  DONNITHORNE  rwincing  a  little.) 
Weren't  you  pleased  to  hear  your  husband  make  such 
a  good  speech  today,  Mrs.  Poyser? 

MRS.   POYSER. 
Oh,  sir,  the  men  are     mostly     so     tongue-tied — you're 
forced  partly  to  guess  what  they  mean,  as  you  do  wi' 
the  dumb  creeturs. 

MR.   IRWINE    (laushing.) 
"What,  you  think  you  could  have  made     it    better    for 
him? 

MRS.   POYSER. 

Well,  sir,  when  I  want  to  say  anything,  I  can  mostly 
find  words  to  say  it  in,  thank  God.  Not  as  I'm  a-flnding 
faut  wi'  my  husband,  for,  if  he's  a  man  o'  few  words, 
what  he  says  he'll  stand  to. 
(Arthur   Donnithorne   passes   on   to     speak     to   the   girls   and 
children  near  the  steps  and  stands  near  Hetty.) 
MR.    IRWINE. 
How  gracefully     Arthur     propo.sed     his     grandfather's 
health  today,  when  we  had  all  of  us  forgotten  it. 

MRS.   POYSER. 

Well,  that's  as  you  think.     To  my  notion  it's  as  well 
not  to  stir  a  kettle  of  sour  broth. 
(The   musicians   are   heard   tuning   their   instruments   and   the 
strains  of  a  brisk  country  dance  are  heard.     Most  of  the  ten- 
ants fall  back  and  stand  close  to  the  walls  or  sit  on  the  seats 
around  the  walls.) 

ARTHUR. 
Mrs.   Poyser,   I'm   come   to   request   the   favor   of  your 
hand  for  the  first  dance;   and  Mr.  Poyser,  you  must  let 
me  take  you  to  my  aunt,  for  she  claims  you  as  her  part- 
ner. 
(Mrs.    Poyser      hands     Totty    to     Molly.        Four     or    six    or 
couples       join       in       the       dance.         Among       them         should 
be       Miss       Lydia       Donnithorne       with       Mr.       Poyser,       Mrs. 
Poyser      and        Arthur        Dennithorne,        Adam     Bede        and 


ADAM    BEDE A    PLAY 


Hetty — the  others  are  unnamed  tenants.  The  dance 
is  a  country  dance — a  Bort  of  modified  lancers,  of 
which  the  special  feature  is  a  ladies'  chain — during  which  every 
man  meets  and  swings  every  woman  who  is  dancing.  There 
is  much  merry  stamping,  a  gracious  nodding  of  the  heads,  a 
waving  bestowal  of  the  hand.  Mr.  Poyser  has  a  holiday 
sprightliness  and  pays  gallant  little  compliments  to  his  wife 
when  he  meets  her  in  the  dance.  Hetty  and  Adam  should  face 
the  audience  at  the  commencement  of  the  dance  with  Arthur 
and  Mrs.  Poyser  opposite  them  with  thoir  backs  to  the  audi- 
ence. The  ladies  move,  while  the  gentlemen  retain  their 
places  to  swing  the  ladies  as  they  come.  When  it  comes  time 
for  Arthur  to  balance  with  Hetty  they  are  together  at  the  cen- 
ter and  front  of  the  stage.) 

ARTHUR   (to  Hetty,  in  a  low  and  hurried  tone.) 

I  shall  be  in  the  wood  the  day  after  tomorrow  at  seven; 
come  as  early  as  you  can. 
(Hetty  flushes  and  smiles  up  at  him.  When  the  dance  is  over 
Arthur  conducts  Mrs.  Poyser,  who  is  flushed  nnd  panting  to  a 
seat.  Mills,  the  butler,  brings  her  ice.  Arthur  devotes  himself 
to  the  other  tenants.  After  the  dance,  Adam  has  conducted 
Hetty  over  to  the  stair^vay  where  Totty  has  gone  to  sleep  in 
Molly's  arms.  Molly  gives  Totty  to  Hett^/  and  goes  upstairs  after 
the  wraps.) 

ADAM. 
Let  me  hold  her.    The    children    are    so    heavy    when 
they're  asleep. 
<Hetty   starts  to  hand   Totty   over  to   Adam,   but   this   rouses 
Totty,   who  strikes  out  with  one  fist   at  Adam     and     with     the 
other  seizes   the   chain   of   beads     around     Hetty's     neck.     The 
string  breaks  and  locket  and  beads  fly  wide  over  the  floor.)  > 

HETTY. 
(In  a  loud,  frightened  whisper.) 

My  locket,  my  locket,   never  mind  the  beads. 
ADAM. 
(Picking  up  the  locket.) 
It  isn't  hurt. 

HETTY. 
Oh,  It  doesn't  matter.     I  don't  mind  about  it. 


ADAM    BEDE A    PLAY 


ADAM. 

Not  matter?  You  seemed  very  frightened  about  it. 
I'll  hold  it  till  you're  ready  to  take  It.  (Molly  comes 
back  and  takes  Totty  away.)  Hetty,  Hetty,  whose  is  the 
hair  inside?  Is  thee  foolin'  me,  my  girl,  -md  you  as  good 
as  my  promised  wife?  Oh,  Hetty,  have  you  forgotten 
the  night  in  the  curran*  bushes  and  what  you  said  then, 
and  just  now,  when  I'm  to  have  the  woods  and  every- 
thing! Oh,  Hetty,  Hetty. 
(Hetty  buries  her  face  in  her  hands,  while  Adam  looks  at 
her  steadfastly.  The  band  is  plaj'ing  softly,  Arthur 
leads  out  another  stout  tenant's  lady  and  the  couples 
form  for  another  dance  as 

The   Curtain  Falls. 


f  ACT    III.  J 


TIME— August  1,  1799.  PLACE— Mappletori,  Staffordshire. 
The  wood.  At  the  back  of  the  stage  is  a  long  vista  of  trees,  and 
at  the  left  a  rustic  building,  the  Hermitage.  Seats  are  scattered 
among  the  trees.  It  is  not  yet  twilight.  The 
curtain  rises  as  Hetty  and  Arthur  Donnithorne  come 
through  the  open  door  and  down  the  steps  of  the  Hermitage,  his 
arm  about  her.  Her  hair  is  a  bit  dishevelled,  and  she  has  her 
bonnet  and  cape  in  her  hands.  Arthur  helps  hor  playfully  to  tie 
them  on.  They  chat  and  smile  and  his  manner  is  most  affec- 
tionate. Hers  is  loving  and  trustful  and  full  of  wistful  pride 
and  shyness.  Arthur  is  in  evening  dress.  Hetty  wears  a  pretty 
cotton  frock  and  a  little  scoop  bonnet  with  a  wreath  of  pink 
roses  inside.  Her  cape  is  a  pretty  shade  of  green  and  her  bon- 
net is  tied  with  wide  rose-colored  ribbon  strings.) 

ARTHUR. 

Hasn't  this  summer  been  a  little  bit  of  heaven,  Hetty? 
How  I  shall  miss  you  when  I'm  in  Windsor.  But  it's 
just  as  well,  perhaps,  that  I'm  called  away,  for  sometime 
or  other  your  aunt  would  be  sure  to  suspect  us  and  then 
there'd  be  the  devil  and  all  to  pay.  I  don't  doubt  but 
what  she'd  go  to  my  grandfather  fast  enough.  Why.  even 
Mr.  Irwine  has  been  taking  me  to  task  lately  for  admiring 
you  too  much  and  keeping  off  the  young  swains  who 
adore  those  lovely  eyes  and  sweet  cheeks  of  yours. 
HETTY. 

But  I'm  sure  I  don't  want  any  of  them,  sir.  It's  happi- 
ness enough  for  me  to  know  that  you  love  me.  Captain 
Donnithorne,  even  if  the  other  girls  don't  know  it.  But 
I  just  Avish  that  Mary  Burdge  knew  what  you  said— that 
you'd  rather  kiss  me  than  any  fine  lady  you  ever  saw, 
and  that  she  knew  that  we'd  met  here  in  the  wood  twice 
every  week  these  last  two  months. 


ADAM    BEDE A     PLAi 


ARTHUR  (Hastily.) 

But  that  wouldn't  do  at  all,  Hetty,  and  darling  have  you 
been  very  careful  to  remember  never  to  show  your  locket, 
earrings  or  any  of  the  trifles  I've  given  you?  I  Icnow  you'd 
like  to  wear  them,  vain  little  puss  (pinching  her  cheek), 
but  I  can't  blame  you.  If  I  had  such  pretty  ears  as 
yours  or  such  a  beautiful  neck  (kisses  her  throat) — though 
really  you  need  no  adorning,  beautiful  one.  You're  quite 
bewitching  enough  to  turn  any  head  just  as  you  are. 
HETTY. 

Indeed,  Mr.  Arthur,  I've  never  shown  my  things  to 
anyone,  nor  had  them  on  except  in  my  room  at  night, 
with  the  door  locked  and  everyone  asleep — much  as  I'd 
like  to.  What's  the  use  of  having  things  that  you  can't 
wear?  (pouting).  But  one  person's  seen  my  locket, 
sir,  and  asked  me  about  it. 

ARTHUR  (Surprised.) 

Who  was  that?     You  never  told  me. 
HETTY. 

It  was  Adam  Bede,  the  night  of  the  coming  of  age. 
That  ugly  Totty  pulled  at  my  bead  chain  after  the  danc- 
ing and  the  locket  fell  to  the  oor.  Adam  was  standln' 
by  me  and  picked  it  up  and  couldn't  help  seein'  that  there 
was  two  kinds  of  hair  in  it — the  dark  and  light.  And 
then  he  turned  it  over  and  asked  me  who  gave  it  me. 
ARTHUR. 

Insolent!     And  what  did  you  say? 

HETTY. 

I  didn't  say  anything,  for  just  then  aunt  came  up 
and  we  went  home,  and  I  haven't  seen  Adam  alone  since. 
ARTHUR. 

Oh,  well,  Adam's  a  good  fellow.  If  anyone  had  to 
know,  I'd  rather  it  would  be  Adam.  Now  if  it  were 
Craig,  the  gardener,  or  somebody  who  would  be  jealous 
of  me,  I  should  mind  it  more.  Besides,  Adam  would 
likely  think  you  saved  your  money  to  buy  it  yourself — 
he  knows  nothing  of  the  values  of  such  things— and 
perhaps  he'd  think  the  hair  was  yours  and  that  of  your 
father  or  mother  or  someone. 


ADAM    BEDE A    PLAY 


HETTY. 

(Tossing  her  head.) 

Well,  it  don't  matter  much  what  he  thinks  so  long 
as  he  doesnt'  tell  aunt  and  uncle;  but,  oh,  Mr.  Arthur, 
how  lonely  it  will  be  while  you're  in  Windsor.  And 
there'll  be  many  pretty  girls  there,  I  doubt  not.  (wist- 
fully.) 

ARTHUR    (Tenderly.) 

But  none  so  pretty  as  you,  Hetty.  Ah,  little  girl,  you 
don't  know  how  hard  and  fast  you've  twined  yourself 
around  my  heart.  Many  and  many  a  time  I've  resolved 
not  to  see  you  alone  again  and  I've  ridden  Vixen  most 
to  death  while  I  made  good  resolutions  about  not  seeing 
you — and  broken  them  within  half  a  day.  And  you  don't 
know  the  reason  why  I  went  away  to  Ellaston.  But 
the  real  reason  was  to  get  away  from  you,  and  I  made 
up  my  mind,  oh  ever  so  many  times,  that  I  wouldn't  see 
you  again,  come  what  might.  And  the  very  first  night 
after  I  came  home,  found  me  waiting  here  for  you  in 
the  wood.  You  didn't  come,  either,  and  I  can't  ever 
remember  being  so  disappointed  since  my  first  trousers 
failed  to  come  from  the  tailor's.  Strange  what  power  to 
draw  a  man  lies  under  long  lashes  and  in  scarlet, 
pouting  lips. 
(They  are  sitting  on  one  of  the  benches  now,  and  he  kisses 
her.) 

Why  wasn't  I  born  in  a  cottage,  Hetty,  or  why  weren't 
you  born  in  the  Hall,  and  then  we  might  have  married 
each  other  in  the  gray  old  church  and  been  as  happy 
as  only  you  and  I  know  how  to  be. 

HETTIE    (Coaxingly.) 

But,  sir,  aren't  we  to  be  married?  When  you  come 
back  from  Windsor,  you'll  marry  me  and  make  a  lady  of 
me,  and  I  shall  wear  gold  things  on  my  head 
like  the  ladies  in  the  pictures  at  the  Chase,  and,  oh, 
I'd  love  you  very  much,  I'm  sure. 

ARTHUR. 

I'm  sure  you  would,  dear — love  me  as  much  as  you  have 
these  delicious  evenings  in  the  wood  and  in  the  Her- 
mitage, Hetty.     Oh,  you  sweet  little  blossom,  you.     You 


ADAM    BEDE A    PLAY  41 

madden  me  and  make  me  forget  every  rule  of  caste  and 
every  good  resolution.  It's  only  when  I  see  your  uncle 
and  aunt  that  I've  enough  will  power  left  to  feel  sorry. 
Then  I  feel  like  the  deceitful  brute  I  am.  What  would 
they  say,  Hetty,  if  they  suspected? 
HETTY. 
But  when  I  live  at  the  Chase  I  shan't  see  them  often, 
and  I'm  sure  I  don't  care  what  they  think.  We  might 
be  married  secretly  like  the  doctor's  niece  and  the  apoth- 
ecary's assistant,  and  then  when  they  found  it  out  It 
wouldn't  matter  what  they  thought,  for  it  would  be  too 
late  to  do  anything. 

ARTHUR. 
Well,   we'll   see,   dear,   we'll   see  WHEN   I  come   home 
from   Windsor.     You   must   forget   me    while    I'm    away, 
sweet,  and  go  to     the     harvest    suppers  and  the  dances, 
and  have  a  good  time  with  Luke  Britton  and  all  the  like- 
ly young  farmers,  for  I  don't  want  my  Hetty  pale  and 
pining.    And  now  you  must  go  home  for  it's  getting  late 
and  your  aunt  will  miss  you,  and  will  have  more  to  say 
about  your  being  too  fond  of  Mrs.  Pomfret  and  the  ser- 
vants at  the  Hall.     I  wish  I  could  go  all  the  way  with 
you,  Hetty,  but  you  won't  be  afraid,  dear,  will  you,  for 
I  don't  think  it's  best  for  me  to     go     beyond    the     trees. 
Hetty,  tell  me  again     that    you     love     me.     And  then,  a 
long,  long  kiss,  for  I  shan't  have  any  more  kisses  for  a 
long  while — not  until  I  get  back  from  Windsor. 
(He  folds  her  in  his  arms  and  they  kiss  lingeringly  and  pas- 
sionatelj^     They  have  risen  from  the  seat  and  do  not  see  Adam 
Bede    approaching    through    the    trees    from    the    right    with    his 
tools  on   his   shoulder.     He  sees  them   wrapped   in   each   other's 
arms  and  halts  in  astonishment.     He     makes     a     slight     noise. 
Hetty  and  Arthur   start   apart.     Without   looking  to   see   who   it 
is  she  runs  swiftly  from  the  stage  to  the  left  and  Arthur  turns 
to  meet  the  intruder. 

Adam  halts  and  waits  for  Arthur  to  come  up  to  him.  They 
make  a  striking  contrast,  Arthur  in  his  evening  clothes — Adam 
in  his  working  garb.     Arthur  advances  nonchalantly.) 

ARTHUR. 
(Laughing  unnaturally.) 

Well,  Adam,  you     have     been     looking  at  the  fine  old 


ADAM    BEDE A    PLAY 


beeches,  eh?  They^re  not  to  be  come  near  by  the 
hatchet,  though;  this  is  a  sacred  grove.  I  overtook  pretty- 
little  Hetty  Sorrel  as  I  was  coming  to  my  den — the  Her- 
mitage there.  She  ought  not  to  come  home  this  way  so 
late.  So  I  took  care  of  her  to  the  gate,  and  asked  a  kiss 
for  my  pains.  But  I  must  get  back  now,  for  this  road  Is 
confoundedly  damp.  Good-night,  Adam;  I  shall  see  you 
tomorrow — to    say   goodby,    you   know. 

(He  walks  past  Adam.) 

ADAM. 

(Without  turning  round,  in  a  hard,  peremptory  tone.) 
Stop  a  bit,  sir.    I've  got  a  word  to  say  to  you. 

ARTHUR   (Haughtily.) 
Adam,  what  do  you  mean? 
ADAM. 
(In  the  same  harsh  voice,  still  without  turning  around.) 
I  mean,  sir,  that  you  don't  deceive  me  by  your  light 
words.     This  is  not  the  first  time  you've  met  Hetty  Sor- 
rel in  this  grove,  and  this  is     not     the     first  time  you've 
kissed  her.  i 

ARTHUR. 
Well,  sir,  what  then? 

ADAM. 

Why,  then,  instead  of  acting  like  th'  upright,  honor- 
able man  we've  all  believed  you  to  be,  you've  been  acting 
the  part  of  a  selfish,  light-minded  scoundrel.  You  know, 
as  well  as  I  do,  what  it's  to  lead  to,  when  a  gentleman  like 
you  kisses  and  makes  love  to  a  young  woman  like  Hetty, 
and  gives  her  presents  as  she's  frightened  for  other  folks 
to  see.  And  I  say  it  again,  you're  acting  the  part  of  a 
selfish,  light-minded  scoundrel,  though  it  cuts  me  to  th* 
heart  to  say  so,  and  I'd  rather  ha'  lost  my  right  hand. 

ARTHUR. 

(Trying  to  speak  carelessly.) 

Let  me  tell  you,  Adam,  you're  not  only  devilishly  im- 
pertinent, but  you're  talking  nonsense.  Every  pretty 
girl  is  not  such  a  fool  as  you,  to  suppose  that  when  a 
gentleman  admires  her  beauty  and  pays  her  a  little  at- 
tention, he  must  mean  something  particular.     Every  man 


ADAM    BEDE A    PLAY 


likes  to  flirt  with  a  pretty  g:irl  and  every  pretty  girl 
likes  to  be  flirted  with.  The  wider  the  distance  between 
them  the  less  harm  there  is,  for  then  she  is  not  likely 
to  deceive  herself. 

ADAM. 
I  don't  know  what  you  mean  by  flirting,  but  if  you 
mean  behaving  to  a  woman  as  if  you  loved  her,  and  yet 
not  loving  her  all  the  while,  I  say  that's  not  th'  action 
of  an  honest  man,  and  what  isn't  honest  does  come  t* 
harm.        I'm  not       a      fool,         and        you're         not 

a  fool,  and  you  know  better  than  what 
you're  saying.  You  know  it  couldn't  be  made  public  as 
you've  behaved  to  Hetty  as  you've  done,  without  her  los- 
ing her  character,  and  bringing  shame  and  trouble  on 
her  and  her  relations.  What  if  you  meant  nothing  by 
your  kissing  and  your  presents?  Other  folks  won't  be- 
lieve as  you've  meant  nothing;  and  don't  tell  me  about 
her  not  deceiving  herself.  I  tell  you  as  you've  filled  her 
mind  so  with  the  thought  of  you  as  it'll  mayhap  poison 
her  life;  and  she'll  never  love  another  man  as  'ud  make 
her  a  good  husband. 

ARTHUR. 
(In  a  tone  of  friendly  concession.) 
Well,  Adam,  you're  perhaps  right.  Perhaps  I've  gone  a 
little  too  far  in  taking  notice  of  the  pretty  little  thing, 
and  stealing  a  kiss  now  and  then.  You're  such  a  grave, 
steady  fellow,  you  don't  understand  the  temptation  to 
such  trifling.  I'm  sure  I  wouldn't  bring  trouble  or 
annoyance  on  her  and  the  good  Poysers  on  any  account 
if  I  could  help  it.  But  I  think  you  look  a  little  too  seriously 
at  it.  You  know  I'm  going  away  immediately,  so  I 
shan't  make  any  more  mistakes  of  the  kind.  But  let  us 
say  good -night  (Arthur  turns  round  to  walk  on)  and 
talk  no  more  about  the  matter.  The  whole  thing  will 
soon  be  forgotten. 

ADAM. 

(Throwing  down  his     tools     and     striding    around  until  he  is 
in  front  of  Arthur.) 

No,  by  God,  it'll  not  soon  be  forgot,  as  you've  come  in 
between  her  and  me,  when  she  might  ha'  loved  me— it'll 


44  ADAM    BEDE A    PLAY 

not  soon  be  forgot,  as  you've  robbed  me  o'  my  happiness, 
while  I  thought  you  was  my    best    friend,     and  a  noble- 
minded  man,  as  I  was  proud  to    work    for.    And    you've 
been  kissing  her  and  meaning  nothing,  have  you?     And 
I  never  kissed  her  i'  my  life,  but  I'd  ha'  worked  hard  for 
yeaxs  for  the  right  to  kiss  her.    And  you  make  light  of  it. 
You  think  little  o'  doing  what  may  da.mage  other  folks, 
so  as  you  get  your  bit  o'  trifling,  as  means  nothing.     I 
throw  back  your  favors,  for     you'r  not  the  man  I     took 
you  for.     I'll  never  count  you  my  friend  any  more.     I'd 
rather  you'd  act  as  my  enemy,  and     fight     me     where  I 
stand — it's  all  th'  amends  you  can  make  me. 
(Arthur's   expression   changes   as   he   learns   for   the   first  time 
that  Adam  loves  Hetty.     Adam  throws   off  his   cap  and  jacket, 
but  Arthur  stands   motionless   with   his   hands    in   his   waistcoat 
pockets.)  j 

ARTHUR. 
Go  away,  Adam,  I  don't  want  to  fight  you. 

ADAM. 
No,  you  don't  want  to  fight  me;  you  think  I'm  a  com- 
mon man,  as  you  can  injure  without  answering  for  it. 
You  know  I  won't  strike  you  while  you  stand  so. 

ARTHUR. 

(With  warmth.) 

I  never  meant  to  injure  you.    I  didn't  know  you  loved 
her.  t 

ADAM. 

But  you  made  her  love  you.  You're  a  double-faced  man 
— ril  never  believe  a  word  you  say  again. 

ARTHUR. 

(Angrily.) 

Go  away,  I  tell  you,  or  we  shall  both  repent. 

ADAM. 

(In  a  convulsed  voice.) 

No,  I  swear  I  won't  go  away  without  fighting  you.     Do 
you  want  provoking  any  more?  I  tell  you  you're  a  coward 
and  a  scoundrel  ,and  I  despise  you. 
(Arthur  clinches  his  right  hand  and  deals  Adam  a  blow  which 
sends   him   reeling   backward.     They     exchange     several     blows 
FinaKy  Adam  strikes  Arthur.     Arthur     falls,     his     head     lyln» 


ADAM    BEDE A    PLAY 


concealed  in  a  tuft  of  fern,  Adam  waits  for  him  to  rise.  There 
is  no  sif?n  of  life.  Adam  falls  on  his  knees  beside  Arthur  wltft 
a  world  of  apprehension  in  his  face.  Adam  loosens  Arthur's 
cravat  and  collar.     No  sign  of  life.) 

ADAM. 

God. 

(He  lays  a  hand  on  Arthur's  heart.     Arthur  stirs  a  little.) 

ADAM. 

(Tenderly) 

Do  you  feel  any  pain,  sir? 
(Arthur  turns  his  head  and     stares     vaguely     at     Adam.     He 
shivers  and  says  nothing.) 

ADAM. 
Do  vou  feel  any  hurt,  sir? 
(Arthur  puts  his  hand  to  his     waistcoat     buttons,   and  when 
Adam  has  unbuttoned  it,  takes  a  long  breath.) 

ARTHUR. 

(Faintly.) 

Lay  my  head  down  and  get  me  some  water,  if  you  can. 

ADAM. 

(Adam  lays  Arthur's  head  down  on  the  fern  again  and,  empty- 
ing the  tools  out  of  the  basket,  goes  out,  to  return  almost  im- 
mediately with  the  basket  dripping.) 

(Kneeling  to  raise  Arthur's  head.) 

Can  you  drink  a  drop  out  of  your  hand,  sir? 

ARTHUR. 

No,  dip  my  cravat  in  and  souse  it  on  my  head. 
(He   raises  himself  a  little     higher     and     rests     on     Adam's 
arm.) 

ADAM. 

Do  you  feel  any  hurt   inside,   sir? 
ARTHUR. 
No — no  hurt,  but  rather  done  up.     I  suppose  I  fainted 
when  you  knocked  me  down. 

ADAM. 
Yes,  sir,  thank  God.     I  thought  it  was  worse. 

ARTHUR. 
What,  you  thought  you'd  done  for  me,  eh?    Come  help 


46  ADAM    BEDE A    PLAY 

me  on  my  legs.     (Adam  helps  him  up.)     I  feel  terribly 
shaky  and  dizzy.     That  blow  of  yours  must  have  come 
against  me  like  a  battering  ram.     I  don't  believe  I  can 

walk  alone. 

ADAM. 

Lean  on  me,  sir;    I'll  get  you  along.     Or  will  you  sit 
down  a  bit  longer  on  my  coat  here?     I'll    prop     ye     up. 
You'll  perhaps  be  better  in  a  minute  or  two. 
ARTHUR. 
(Sinking  down  on  Adam's  coat.) 

I  believe  I  will  rest  a  little.    I  don't  feel  good  for  much. 
ADAM. 
(.Sits  also.     After  a  little  bit.) 

My  temper  got  the  better  of  me,  and  I  said  things  as 
wasn't  true.  Id  no  right  to  speak  as  if  you'd  known 
you  was  doing  me  an  injury.  You'd  no  grounds  for  know- 
ing it.  I've  always  kept  what  I  felt  for  her  as  secret 
as  I  could.  And  perhaps  I  judged  you  too  harsh — you 
may  have  acted  out  o'  thoughtlessness  more  than  I 
should  ha'  believed  was  possible  for  a  man  with  a  heart 
and  a  conscience.  We're  not  all  put  together  alike,  and 
we  may  misjudge  one  another.  God  knows,  it's  all  the 
joy  I  could  have  now,  to  think  the  best  of  you. 
ARTHUR. 

Say  no  more  about  our  anger,  Adam.  I  forgive  your 
momentary  injustice — it  was  quite  natural,  with  the  ex- 
aggerated notions  you  had  in  your  mind.  We  shall  be  none 
the  worse  friends  in  the  future,  I  hope,  because  we've 
fought;  you  had  the  best  of  it,  and  that  was  as  it  should 
be,  for  I  believe  I've  been  most  in  the  wrong  of  the  two. 
Come,  let  us  shake  hands. 
(Arthur  holds  out  his  hand,  but  Adam  sits  still.) 
ADAM. 

I  don't  like  to  say  "No,"  to  that,  sir,  but  I  can't  shake 
hands  till  it's  clear  what  we  mean  by't.  I  was  wrong  when 
I  spoke  as  if  you'd  done  me  an  injury  knowingly,  but  I 
wasn't  wrong  in  what  I  said  before  about  your  behavior 
t'Hetty,  and  I  can't  shake  hands  with  you  as  if  I  held 
you  my  friend  the  same  as  ever  till  you've  cleared  that 
up  better. 


ADAM    BEDE A    PLAY  47 

ARTHUR. 
I  don't  know  what  you  mean  by  clearmg:  up,  Adam, 
I've  told  you  already  that  you  think  too  seriously  of  a 
little  flirtation.  But  if  you  are  right  in  supposing  there 
is  any  danger  in  it — I'm  going  away  on  Saturday,  and 
there  will  be  an  end  to  it.  As  for  the  pain  it  has  given  you, 
I'm  heartily  sorry  for  it.     I  can  say  no  more. 

ADAM. 

(Rising  and  looking  down  on  Arthur.) 

It'll  be  better  for  me  to  speak  plain,  though  it's  hard 
work.  You  see,  sir,  this  isn't  a  trifle  to  me,  whatever 
it  may  be  to  you.  I'm  none  o'  them  men  as  can  go  mak- 
ing love  to  first  one  woman,  and  then  t'  another,  and  don't 
think  it  much  odds  which  of  them  I  take.  "What  I  feel 
for  Hetty's  a  different  sort  o'  love,  such  as  I  believe  no- 
body can  know  much  about  but  them  as  feel  it,  and 
God  as  has  given  it  to  them.  She's  more  nor  everything 
else  to  me,  all  but  my  conscience  and  my  good  name. 
If  it's  only  trifling  and  flirting,  as  you  call  it,  as'll  be  put 
an  end  to  by  your  going  away — why,  then,  I'd  wait,  and 
hope  her  heart  'ud  turn  to  me  after  all.  I'm  loth  to 
think  you'd  speak  false  to  me,  and  I'll  believe  your  word 
however  things  may  look. 

ARTHUR. 

(Violently  starting  up  from  the  ground.) 

You  would  be  wronging  Hetty  more  than  me  not  to 
believe  it.  (More  feebly)  but  you  seem  to  forget  that,  in 
suspecting  me,  you  are  casting  imputations  upon  her. 

ADAM. 

(More  calmly.) 

Nay  sir.  Nay,  sir.  Things  don't  lie  level  between 
Hetty  and  you.  You're  acting  with  your  eyes  open, 
whatever  you  may  do;  but  how  do  you  know  what's 
been  in  her  mind?  She's  all  but  a  child — as  any  man 
with  a  conscience  in  him  ought  to  feel  bound  to  take 
c&,re  on.  And  whatever  you  may  think,  I  know  you've 
disturbed  her  mind.  I  know  she's  been  fixing  her  heart 
on  you;  for  there's  many  things  clear  to  me  now  as  I 
didn't  understand  before.  But  you  seem  to  make  light 
o'  what  she  may  feel — you  don't  think  o'  that. 


48  ADAM    BEDE A    PLAY 

ARTHUR. 

(Impetuously.) 

Gocd  God,  Adam,  let  me  alone!  I  feel  it  enough 
without  you  worrying  me. 

ADAM. 

(Eagerly.) 

Well,  then,  if  you  feel  it,  if  you  feel  as  you  may  ha' 
put  false  notions  into  her  mind,  and  made  her  believe 
as  you  loved  her,  when  all  the  while  you  mean  nothing, 
I've  this  demand  to  make  of  you — I'm  not  speaking  for 
myself,  but  for  her.  I  ask  you  f  undeceive  her  before 
you  go  away.  Y'arn't  going  away  forever;  and  ,if  you 
leave  her  behind  with  a  notion  in  her  head  o'  your  feel- 
ing about  her  the  same  as  she  feels  about  you,  she'll 
be  hankering  after  you,  and  the  mischief  may  get  worse. 
It  may  be  a  smart  to  her  now,  but  it'll  save  her  pain  i' 
the  end.  I  ask  you  to  write  a  letter — you  may  trust  to  my 
seeing  as  she  gets  it;  tell  her  the  truth,  and  take  blame  to 
yourself  for  behaving  as  you'd  no  right  to  do  to  a  young 
woman  as  isn't  your  equal.  I  speak  plain,  sir.  But  I 
can't  speak  any  other  way.  There's  nobody  can  take 
care  o'  Hetty  in  this  thing  but  me. 

ARTHUR. 

I  can  do  what  I  think  needful  in  the  matter  without 
giving  promises  to  you.  I  shall  take  what  measures  I 
think  proper. 

ADAM. 
(Abruptly.) 

No,  that  won't  do.  I  must  know  what  ground  I'm  tread- 
ing on.     I  must  be  safe  as  you've  put  an  end  to  what 
ought  never  to  ha'  been  begun.    I  don't    forget    what's 
owing  to  you  as  a  gentleman;   but     in     this  thing  we're 
man  and  man,  and  I  can't  give  up. 
ARTHUR. 
I'll  see  you  tomorrow.    I  can  bear  no  more  now,  I'm  ill. 
(He  rises.) 

ADAM. 

(Barring  his  way.) 

You  won't  see  her  again?  Either  tell  me  now  she  can 
never  be  my  wife — tell  me  you've  been  lying — or  else 
promise  me  what  I've  said,  not  tomorrow,  but  now. 


ADAM    BEDE — A    PLAY  .  49 

ARTHUR. 

I  promise — let  me  go.  I'll  write  it  now — in  the  Her- 
mitage. 

ADAM. 

I'll  wait  for  it,  sir.  You're  not  well  enough  to  walk 
alone.  Take  my  arm.     (assisting  him  to  the  Hermitage.) 

ARTHUR. 

(Turning  at  the  door  of  the  Hermitage.) 

Remember  this  letter  is  all  your  work,  Adam.  I 
leave  it  to  j-^ou  to  decide  whether  you  will  be  doing  best 
to  deliver  it  to  Tietty  or  to  return  it  to  me.  Ask  your- 
self once  more  whether  you  are  not  taking  a  measure 
which  may  pain  her  more  than  mere  silence.  We 
shall  meet  with  better  feelings  some  months  hence. 

ADAM. 

Perhaps  you're  right  about  that,  sir.  It's  no  use  meet- 
ing to  say  more  hard  words,  and  it's  no  use  meeting  to 
shake  hands  and  say  we're  friends  again.  We're  not 
friends  and  it's  better  not  to  pretend  it.  I  know  for- 
giveness is  a  man's  duty,  but  to  my  thinking,  that  can 
only  mean  as  you're  to  give  up  all  thoughts  of  taking  re- 
venge; it  can  never  mean  as  you're  t'  have  your  old  feel- 
ings back  again,  such  as  we've  had  since  we  were  little 
fellows,  for  that's  not  possible.  You're  not  the  same  man 
to  me,  and  I  can't  feel  the  same  toward  you.  God  help  me! 
I  don't  know  whether  I  feel  the  same  toward  anybody;  I 
seem  as  if  I'd  been  measuring  my  work  from  a  false  line, 
and  had  got  it  all  to  measure  over  again. 
(Arthur  closes  the  door  of  the  Hermitage  after  him  and 
an  instant  later  passes  the  window  with  a  lighted  candle. 
Adam  grives  a  sob — passes  his  hand  over  his  eyes — and  is 
gathering   the   scattered   tools   as 

The   Curtain  Falls. 


r  ACT    IV.  J 


PLACE — The  parlor  of  the  Green  Man — a  small  inn  in  Wlnd- 
Bor.  Time,  February,  1800.  A  pleasant-looking  woman  of 
fifty  in  apron  and  cap  is  in  the  room  as  the  curtain  rises.  Im- 
mediately the  door  opens  to  admit  a  fat  and  jolly-looking  land- 
lord who  supports  Hetty,  pale  and  thinner  and  with  dark  circles 
under  her  ej-es.  She  comes  into  the  room  very  wearily.  Hetty 
throughout  the  act  wears  a  full  red  cape,  which  falls  to  her 
knees,  a  brown  stuff  skirt  and  a  small  round  bonnet  of  some  so- 
ber color.  On  her  arm  she  has  a  basket.  She  is  footsore  and 
weary,  having  left  Mappleton  and  the  Hall  Farm  some  days  be- 
fore. She  has  walked  and  ridden  hundreds  of  miles  to  reach 
Arthur  at  Windsor.) 

THE  INNKEEPER   (Cordially.) 

Come  in,  young  woman,  come  in  and  have  a  drop  o* 
something.  You're  pretty  near  beat  out.  T  can  see 
that,  (to  his  wife)  Here,  missis,  get  this  young  woman 
summat  to  eat.     She's  a  little  overcome. 

THE    LANDLADY. 

(Setting  out  meat  and  bread  and  beer  on  one  of  the  small 
tables,  while  Hetty  eyes  her  hungrily,  and  glancing  at  Hetty's 
ringless  hand.) 

Draw  up  your  chair  and  have  something.  (Signifi- 
cantly.) Why,  you're  not  very  fit  for  traveling.  Have 
you  come  far? 

HETTY  (Eating  ravenously.) 

Yes,  I've  come  a  good  long  way,  and  it's  very  tiring, 
but   I'm   better   now.     Could   you   tell   me   which   way  to 
go  to  this  place? 
(Taking  from  her  pocket  a  letter  folded  over  to  show  an  ad- 
dress at  the  end.) 


ADAM    BEDE A    PLAV  Jfl 

THE    LANDLORD. 

(Coming:   up    and    looking   at    the   paper.) 

Why,   what  do   you  want  at   that   house? 

HETTY. 
I  want  to  see  a   gentleman  as  is  there. 

THE    LANDLORD. 
But    there's    no    gentleman    there.     It's    shut    up — been 
shut   up  for  a     fortnight.     What     gentleman   is   it     you 
want?     Perhaps  I  can  let  you  know  where  to  find  him? 

HETTY    (Tremulously.) 
It's    Captain    Donnithome. 

THE  LANDLORD. 
Captain    Donnithorne!     Stop    a    bit.     Was    he    In     the 
Staffordshire  militia?    A  tall  young  ofCicer  with  a  fair- 
ish skin  and  smooth- shaven,  and  had  a  servant  by  the 
name  o'  Pym? 

HETTY. 

Yes;   yes.     You  know  him.    Where  is  he? 

LANDLORD. 
A  fine  sight   o'     miles  from     here;    the     StafCordshire 
militia's  gone  to  Ireland.     It's  been  gone  this  fortnight. 

LANDLADY. 

Look  there!     She's  fainting. 
(The  landlord   supports   Hetty   and   with   his   wife   carries   her 
to  a  sofa,   where  the  woman   removes   her  bonnet. 

THE  LANDLORD. 

(Bringing    some    water.) 

Here's  a  bad  business,  I  suspect. 

THE  LANDLADY. 

Ah!  it's  plain  enough  what  sort  of  business  it  Is. 
She's  not  a  common  flaunting  dratchell,  I  can  see  that. 
She  looks  like  a  respectable  country  grirl,  and  she  comes 
from  a  good  way  off,  to  judge  by  her  tongue.  She  talks 
something  like  that  hostler  we  had  that  come  from  the 
north;  he  was  as  honest  a  fellow  as  we  ever  had  about 
the   house;    they're    all   honest   folks   in   the   north. 


62  ADAM    BEDE A    PLAY 

THE   LANDLORD. 

I  never  saw  a  prettier  young  woman  in  my  life.  She's 
like  a  picture  in  a  shop-winder.  It  goes  to  one's  heart 
to  look  at  her. 

THE   LANDLADY. 
It  'ud   have   been   a  good   deal   better  for  her   if  she'd 
been  uglier  and  had  more  conduct.     But  she's  coming  to 
again.     Fetch   a    drop    more    water. 
(Hetty  shows   signs   of  life  and  the   landlord   goes   out.) 
LANDLADY. 
Poor  child,  poor   child    (rubbing  Hetty's   forehead)    I'd 
a  darter  of  me  own   once. 

HETTY   (Starting  up.) 

Oh,  I  thought  you  were  my  aunt  Poyser  and  were  go- 
ing to  scold  me. 

LANDLADY. 
There,   there,     child.     Nobody's     going  to     scold     you. 

We'll  send  you  home  in  a  day  or  . 

HETTY   (Quickly.) 
No,   no,   I   don't   want   to   go   home.     Why   they'd    turn 
me   from   the   house.     I   can't    go    home   now. 
LANDLADY. 
Oh,  they'd  never  be  that  cruel,  and  you  so  young  and 
pretty.     Haven't    ye    a    mother,    child? 
HETTY. 
No,  no  mother.     She  died  when  I  was  a  little  'un  and 
my  father,  too,  an'  you  don't  know  what  a  sharp  tongue 
my  aunt's  got.     No,  no,  I  doubt  not  they'd  turn  me  out 
on  the  parish,  and  I'd  be  like  that     woman  what     was 
found  against  the  church   wall  one   Sunday  last   winter. 
She  was  near  dead  wi'  cold  and  hunger  and  they  took 
her  and  the  baby  to  the  PARISH.     (Hetty     pronounce^ 
this  last  word  as  though  it  were  the  very  depth  of  hu- 
miliation   and    disgrace.)     But    she    died    after.     Oh,    no, 
I'll  never  go  back.    I'd  sooner  drown  myself. 
,  LANDLADY. 

Talk  not  of  drowning — so  young  as  you.     This  trouble 


ADAM    BEDE A    PLAY  58 

will  pass,  my  dear.  Come,  hadn't  you  better  tell  me 
all  about  it?  Perhaps  I  can  help  you  or  anyway  coun- 
sel you  a  bit.     I'm  an   old   woman,   child. 

HETTY. 

(Weeping.) 

I'm  sure  you're  very  kind.  No  one  else  has  spoken  so 
kindly  to  me  since  I  left  home  Friday  was  a  fortnight. 
Oh,  what  a  big  world  it  is  and  how  hard  to  And  one's  way 
about  in  it.     And  now  to  think  he's  gone. 

LANDLADY. 

Poor  child,  poor  child.  I  doubt  not  you've  had  strange 
adventuring  of  late — so  pretty  and  young  as  you  are.  I 
used  to  live  on  a  farm  when  I  was  a  grirl,  too.  There's 
nothing   like   It. 

HETTY. 
The  coaches  were  too  dear.  I  had  to  give  them  up 
after  the  first  day,  but  one  man  was  kind  to  me  and 
wrote  me  down  the  places  that  came  before  Windsor.  I 
walked  most  o'  the  way  with  sometimes  a  carrier's 
cart,  and  one  day  I  went  wrong  and  walked  for  a  whole 
day  to  the  wrong  place.  The  village  where  I  come  from 
Is   more   nor  a   hundred   miles   from   here. 

THE   LANDLADY. 

And  did  no  one  give  you  a  lift  on  the  road? 
HETTY. 

Oh  yes,  sometimes,  but  I'm  not  used  to  long  walks,  and 
the  mile-stones  were  so  far  apart.  I  walked  five  miles 
from  Stoniton  and  then  it  began  to  rain.  I  tried  to  get 
on  to  another  village,  but  I  had  had  no  breakfast  and  I 
had  that  gone  feeling  and  couldn't  walk  fast.  There 
came  a  rumbling  of  wheels  behind  me  and  then  a  cov- 
ered wagon,  with  the  driver  cracking  his  whip  along- 
side. The  man  had  such  a  gruff  voice.  I  had  never 
asked  for  charity  before.  I  couldn't  have  this  time,  but 
on  the  front  seat  I  saw  a  little  white  spaniel  and  then 
I  knew  that  the  man  was  kind.  I  asked  him  would  he 
take  me  up  and  he  let  me  lie  inside  on  the  wool  packs 
out  of  the  rain  and  in  that  way  I  came  to  Ashby. 


54  ADAM     BEDE A    PLAY 

LANDLADY. 

Ashby,  Ashby,  I  don't  remember  that  name.  It  must 
be  a   long  ways  from  here. 

HETTY. 

Oh  it  is — a  long,  long  way.  From  Ashby  I  started 
walking  again  for  I  was  anxious  to  get  out  o'  the  towns^ — 
the  men  stared  so.  I  walked  until  I  was  so  overcome  I 
had  to  sit  down  by  the  wayside.  There  was  a  return 
chaise  came  along,  and  the  postilion  asked  me  if  I 
wouldn't  ride,  but  he  was  drunk  and  twisted  himself 
around  in  the  saddle,  and  shouted  questions  at  me,  and 
galloped  the  horses  all  the  way  until  I  was  near  fright- 
ened to  death.  And  oh  how  different  that  country  is 
from  ours — all  flat  fields  and  hedge  rows  and  dotted 
houses.  Oo  you  know  how  sweet  it  is  in  Staffordshire 
where   the   Gueldres   roses   bloom   in   at   the   windows? 

THE   LANDLADY. 

Yes,  yes.  I  was  there  when  I  was  first  married.  But 
didn't    you   have    any    money? 

HETTY. 

Yes,  a  little,  but  the  coaches  cost  so  and  eating  at  the 
public  comes  high  and  when  I  found  out  it  was  so  much 
further  to  Windsor  nor  I  thought  I  counted  the  shillings 
that  were  left  and  I  found  that  by  eating  three  buns 
a  day  and  walking  all  the  way  I  could  just  get  here 
before   my   last   six-pence   was   gone. 

LANDLADY. 

It's    a  wonder   you   had    the    courage. 
HETTY. 

Oh,  I  tried  to  drown  myself.  Sometimes  I  left  the 
highroad  that  I  might  walk  slowly  and  not  care  how  my 
face  looked.  One  day  I  came  to  a  dark  pool  that  the 
rains  had  filled  up  until  the  elder  bushes  were  underneath 
the  water.  I  thought  that  by  the  time  the  pool  got 
shallow  in  summer  they  couldn't  find  out  that  IT  was 
my  body  nor  why  I  drowned  myself — (breaks  into  a  fit 
of  sobbing.) 


ADAM    BEDE A    PLAY  55 

LANDLADY    (Trying   to   quiet  her.) 

There,  there,   it's  wicked  to  drown  oneself. 
HETTY   (Fiercely.) 

I  don't  care.  It  was  dark  and  there  was  no  hurry.  I 
had  all  night  to  do  it  in.  I  got  some  stones  and  put 
them  in  my  basket  so  that  it  mightn't  float,  and  then  I 
ate  some  buns  that  I  had  bought  in  the  morning,  and 
then  I  must  have  fallen  asleep.  When  I  woke  up  it 
was  deep  night  and  cold,  so  cold.  I  got  up  to  walk 
about  to  warm  myself,  because  I'd  be  better  able  to  do  it 
then,  for  I  couldn't  drown  myself  while  I  was  so  cold. 
..    LANDLADY. 

Sleeping    in    the    fields    o'    night.     Oh,    what    a    shame. 
HETTY. 

And  I'd  never  cared  much  for  my  home  when  I  was 
well  and  happy,  but  I  thought  of  it  that  night,  the 
bright  fire,  and  the  polished  pewter  and  them  all  sitting 
down  to  supper.  And  the  good  man  who  loved  me;  the 
fields  and  the  dairy  and  the  dogs  and  the  children — and 
oh,  I  loved  them  all.  And  I  stretched  out  my  arms  to 
'em,  but  something  deep  and  black  was  between  and  I 
knew  that  I  should  never  go  back  or  see  'em  again. 
And  then  I  thought  of  HIM  and  I  cursed  him  there  in 
the    dark. 

LANDLADY. 

But  you  didn't  go  into  the  pool. 
HETTY. 

No,  I  durst  not.  It  was  as  though  I  was  dead  and 
knew  it  and  longed  to  get  back  into  life  again.  I  was 
sorry  and  glad  at  the  same  time — sorry  that  I  dast  not 
face  death;  glad  that  I  was  still  in  life,  and  as  I  walked 
in  the  field,  I  brushed  against  the  dear  warm  body  of  a 
sheep  and  I  knew  that  I  might  yet  know  light  and 
warmth  again,  for  I  remembered  when  I  felt  the  sheep 
that  I  had  seen  a  hovel  in  the  next  field,  such  as  Allck 
used  at  home  in  lambing  time,  and  I  thought  that  if  I 
could  get  to  it  I  would  be  warmer.  I  took  the  stones 
from   my   basket   and   climbed   the  stile. 


56  ADAM    BEDE A    PLAY 

..   THE   LANDLADY. 

You  never  slept   in  one  o'   them   dirty  hovels? 
HETTY. 

Yes  and  was  glad  to.  I  felt  my  way  along  the  rails 
and  something  pricked  my  hand  sharply — it  was  the 
prickling  of  the  gorsy  wall  of  the  hovel.  Oh  the  joy  of 
it,  the  shelter,  the  roof,  the  warm,  close  smell!  There 
was  straw  on  the  floor  of  the  hovel  and  I  knelt  there 
and  I  kissed  my  arms,  I  was  so  glad  to  be  alive. 
THE  LANDLADY. 

Dear  heart,  dear  heart. 

HETTY. 

And  I  had  dreams — one  after  another — and  the 
dreams  slid  into  one  another  until  I  thought  that  I  was 
in  the  hovel  and  my  aunt  standing  over  me  with  a 
candle  in  her  hand.  But  there  was  no  candle,  only  the 
light  of  the  early  morning  through  the  open  door  and 
there  was  a  face  looking  down  at  me — a  man  in  a  smock- 
frock.  And  he  was  very  rough  to  me  and  said  terrible 
things  to  me  and  frightened  me.  I  told  him  I  was 
traveling  south'ard  and  that  I'd  lost  my  way  an'  he 
laughed  at  me  and  said  anybody  would  think  I  was  a 
wild  woman  to  look  at  me.  And  the  day  was  as  hard 
as  the  night. 

LANDLADY. 

But  surely  there  is  someone  you  could  go  to?  The 
young  man  you  spoke  of — not  Captain  Donnithorne — 
but  the  young  man  as  loved  you.  Couldn't  you  go  to 
him? 

HETTY. 

Adam?  Oh,  you  don't  know  Adam.  He  loved  me, 
but  he's  as  proud  as  proud.  He'd  never  ha' 
asked  me  to  marry  him  if  he'd  known  the  truth.  And 
If  I'd  ha'  known  it  then,  I'd  never  ha*  promised,  either. 
But  I  kept  thinking  that  something  must  happen  to 
save  me — I  couldn't  stand  to  be  disgraced  in  my  own 
village  where  we've  allays  held  our  heads  so  high.  And 
then   Aunt   said   folks   couldn't   be   married   like   cuckoos 


ADAM    BEDE A    PLAY  67 

and   we   must   wait   till   March   and   I   couldn't   wait   till 
March.     I   couldn't   ha'    borne   to   hear     what    my     aunt 
would  a-said,  and  Adam  too,  if  they'd  a-known. 
THE     LANDLADY. 

But    Captain    Donnithorne,    couldn't    he    help    you? 
HETTY. 

Oh  he  was  away  all  the  time — here  in  Windsor — and 
before  he  went  he  wrote  me  a  letter  and  told  me  that 
he  coudn't  marry  me.  Adam  knew  that  there'd  been 
something  between  us,  for  he  brought  me  the  letter — 
the  one  that  I  showed  to  your  man.  But  Adam  never 
gruessed  the  truth.  And  then  I  thought  when  I  couldn't 
wait  till  March  and  couldn't  marry  Adam  that  I'd  come 
to  the  Captain  at  Windsor  and  ask  him  to  hide  me 
somewhere,  for  though  I  knew  from  his  letter  that  he 
wouldn't  mind  about  me  as  he  used  to.  he  promised  to 
be    good    to    me. 

THE   LANDLADY. 

That's   the   way   wi'   them   fine   gentlemen.    Much   they 
care  what  the  poor  girl  suffers,  and  he  gone  off  to  Ireland. 
HETTY  (Crying  again.) 

Oh,  he  didn't  mean  to  be  cruel  and  though  I  cursed 
him  that  night  by  the  pool,  he  couldn't  know  what's 
happened  to  me.  Only  I  thought  all  the  time  that  he'd 
marry  me  and  make  a  lady  of  me  until  I  got  his  letter 
— ^that  cruel,  cruel  letter.  He  told  me  that  I  should 
never  be  happy  except  I  married  a  man  in  my  own  sta- 
tion, and  that  if  he  married  me  he'd  only  be  adding 
to  the  wrong  he  had  done,  as  well  as  offending  against 
his  duty  to  his  relations.  He  said  we  mustn't  feel  like 
lovers  any  more,  and  that  I  must  think  of  him  as  little 
as  I  could  and  then  he  said  as  how  he'd  always  be  my 
affectionate   friend. 

LANDLADY. 

Affectionate   friend,   indeed. 

HETTY. 

But  of  course  he  never  thought  and  I'm  sure  I  never 
did  cf— what  happened.    And  I  just  didn't  dare  stay  art 


66  ADAM    BEDE A    PLAY 

home  any  longer  and  face  Adam  and  my  aunt  and  them 
all,  and  have  the  finder  of  shame  pointed  at  me.  Oh, 
dear,  I  was  like  a  fox  in  a  trap.  All  day  as  I'd  go  about 
the  house,  this  weight  sat  upon  me  and  at  night  I'd 
wake  up  and  try  to  push  it  off  and  every  day  it  grew 
worse,  and  I  came  to  be  afraid  that  my  aunt  would 
find  out.  And  then  I  said  that  I'd  go  to  visit  a  niece  of 
my  aunt's — she's  a  Methodist  preacher  in  Derbyshire — 
but  I  never  stopped  at  the  town  where  she  lives  but 
came  straight  here,  trusting  that  Captain  Donnithorne 
would  be  good  to  me. 

LANDLADY. 
He  cared  nothing  about  you  as  a  man  ought  to  care. 
He  trifled  with  you  and  made  a  plaything  of  you. 

H  ETTY. 

Yes  he  DID  care  for  me  at  first.  But  it  began  by  little 
an'  little  till  at  last  I  couldn't  throw  it  off.     And  I  did 
believe   he'd   make   me   the   right   amends. 
LANDLADY. 

If  he'd  cared  for  you  rightly  he'd  never  have  behaved 
so. 

HETTY. 

He  meant  nothing  by  his  kissing  and  presents,  but  I 
trusted  to  his  loving  me  well  enough  to  marry  me,  for 
all  he's  a  gentleman.  I  was  so  young.  I  had  no 
mother.  I  hadn't  seen  much  o'  what  goes  on  in  the 
world.  But  it's  a  terrible  thing  to  have  folks  speak 
light  o'  you  and  lose  your  character. 
LANDLADY. 

Well,  well,  there's  probably  a  great  hue  and  cry  over 
you  at  home  by  this  time.  When  was  you  expected 
back? 

HETTY. 

In  a  week  and  it's  already  gone  a  fortnight,  but  I'll 
never  go  back,  never,  never.  The  pool  or  the  parish  is 
better  nor  that.  And  if  anyone  should  come  inquiring 
of  me,  which  isn't  likely,  you'll  say  you  haven't  seen  me, 
won't  you,  won't  you?  (She  is  weeping  bitterly  again 
now.)     Say  you   will.  ■ 


ADAM    BEDE A    PLAY  6» 

THE    LANDLADY. 

(Smoothing  Hetty's  hair  as  she  lies  on  the  lounge.) 

We  won't  tell  on  you.  There,  there,  don't  cry.  We 
must  find  a  way.  You  shall  stay  at  the  Green  Man  un- 
til you're  rested  a  bit  and  then  we'll  try  if  we  can't  find 
you  a  situation,  though  it'll  be  hard,  I  doubt  not.  Cry 
it  out  if  you  want  to.  You'll  feel  the  better  for  it.  I'll 
talk  it  over  with  my  man,  but  I  doubt  not  he'll  be  per- 
suaded to  let  you  stay  for  a  while  at  least.  We  need 
a  barmaid.  I'll  likely  persuade  him.  We  had  a  dar- 
ter of  cur   own   once. 

(The  landlord   comes   in  now.) 

THE  LANDLADY  (To  her  husband.) 

The  poor  girl's  that  beat.  I'm  going  to  take  her  up- 
stairs. She  must  rest  a  bit — it's  a  bed  she  needs,  and 
when  she's  rested  we  can  find  something  for  her  to  do 
about   the    Green    Man. 

THE    LANDLORD. 

I'd  have  you  to  know  that  the  Green  Man's  a  respectable 
public  inn  and   the  name  o'   Stone  has  always  been  an 
honor'ble  one.     I'll  not  have  it  disgraced  now,  nor  have 
base-born   brats   in   my   house   either. 

THE    LANDLADY. 

Lor',  I  never  thought  you'd  be  that  hard.  'Twas  you 
yourself  brought  her  in.  And  whose  money,  I  want  to 
know,    helped   you   to   buy   the    Green    Man. 

THE   LANDLORD   (Ignoring  the  last  remark.) 

I  could  see  she  was  beat  out,  but  you've  given  her  to 
eat  and  drink  and  that's  enough.  Now  let  her  get  on. 
This  thing's  likely  to  breed  trouble,  harboring  runaway 
farm  gells,  and  I  want  no  trouble  in  my  house. 

THE    LANDLADY. 

But  you  wor  sayin'  only  the  other  day  as  you  wished 
we  had  a  young  and  pretty  barmaid  and  I'm  sure  she's 
young  and  pretty  enough  and  in  a  little  while  she  can 
tend  the   bar  for  ye.' 


ADAM    BEDE A    PLAY 


THE    LANDLORD. 

But  111  have  none  but  respectable  gells  in  this 
house.  This  thing's  like  to  bring  trouble — gells  as  have 
doin's  with  fine  gentlemen — and  beside  who's  to  pay 
for  the   doctorln'    before    that?     That's    what   I    want    to 

know. 

HETTY. 

I've  no  money  but   I've   a  loclcet  and     earrings     that 
might  bring  something — enough  to  pay  for  a  day  or  two 
and  then  I'll  go  on  if  you  please    (falteringly.) 
(She  takes  the  things  from  a  red  case  in  her  pocket  and  lays 
them  on  the  table  before  him.) 

THE    LANDLORD. 
We  might  take  'em  to  the  jeweler's  shop,  for  there's 
one  not  far  off:   but  Lord  bless  you,  they  wouldn't  give 
you  a  quarter  o'   what  the   things   are  worth.     And  you 
wouldn't  like  to   part   with   'em? 

HETTY  (Indifferently.) 
Oh  I  don't   mind.     I'd   ruther  have   the   money. 

THE    LANDLORD. 
And  they  might  think  the  things  were  stolen,  as  you 
wanted  to  sell  'em,  for  it  isn't  usual  for  a  young  woman 
like  you  to  have  fine  jew'lery  like  that. 

HETTY    (Drawing   herself   up.) 
I  belongr  to   respectable   folk.     I'm   not   a  thief. 

THE  LANDLADY  (Indignantly.) 
No,  that  you  aren't.  I'll  be  bound,  and  you've  no  call 
to  say  that.     The  things  were  gev  to   her;    that's  plain 
enough  to  be  seen. 

THE  LANDLORD  (Apologetically.) 
I  didn't  mean  as  I  thought  so,  but  I  said  it  was  what 
the  jeweler  might   think,   and   so   he   wouldn't   be  offer- 
ing much   money  for   'em. 

THE    LANDLADY. 
Well,   suppose   you   were  to   advance   some   money   on 
the    things    yourself,    and    then    If    she    liked    to    redeem 
'em  arter,   she   could. 


•ADAM    BEJ)E A    PLAY 


THE     LANDLORD. 

Well,    have    it    your   own    way,    Sarah. 
(The  landlady  puts  her  arm  around  Hetty  and  they  leave  the 
room.     As  they  reach   the  door   the  landlady  turns   and  says  to 
her   husband.) 

THE     LANDLADY. 

And  if  anyone  should  come  Inquirin'  you  haven't  seen 
any   girl   from   the   north. 

THE    LANDLORD. 
"Well,   all     right.     Nobody     ever  said  as     John     Stone 
couldn't  keep  a  secret. 
(He    takes    out    the    locket    and    trinkets    and    examines    them 
by  the  window.     The  door  opens  and  Adam  Bede  comes  in.     He 
has  a  stick  and  a  bundle  and  appears  to  have  walked  a  long  way. 
He  looks  worn  and  dusty  and  very  anxious.) 

ADAM. 
Ye  haven't  seen  any  young  woman  here  as  was  trav- 
elin'   sou' ward? 

THE    LANDLORD. 
What   sort   of   a   young    woman? 

ADAM. 
Very  young  and  pretty,  eighteen  years  old,  with  grey 
eyes  and  curly  hair  and  a  red  cloak  on  and  a  basket  on 
her  arm.     You  couldn't  forget  her  if  you  saw  her. 

THE     LANDLORD. 

Nay,    I'n    seen    no    young    woman. 

ADAM. 
Think,  are  you  quite  sure''     Her  name  is  Hetty — ^Hetty 
Sorrel. 

THE     LANDLORD. 

How    long    ago    might    it    be? 
ADAM. 

She  left  Mappleton  Friday  was  a  fortnight  and  was 
goin'  to  visit  a  young  woman  in  Stonlton.  But  she 
never  went  there,  and  I  can't  trace  her  further  nor  Ash- 
by. 


ADAM    BEDE A    PLAY 


THE    LANDLORD. 

Mayhap  she's  run  away,  but  I'n  seen  no  young  wo- 
man. Won't  you  have  a  pint  o'  ale?  You  seem  tired- 
like. 

ADAM. 

No,  I'll  push  on.  The  highway  forks  a  few  miles 
back  and  I  maun  take  the  other  road.  Happen  she 
went   in   that   direction. 

THE    LANDLADY    (Entering  quickly.) 
The  poor  child  is     that — (stops     suddenly     on     seeing 
Adam)  '  ) 

ADAM. 
Goodbye,     (goes   out.) 

THE    LANDLORD. 

(Bowing   by   the   door.) 

I'm  sorry  I'm  not  able  to  serve  you, 
THE    LANDLADY. 
Why,    who   was    that?    Another     stranger     from     the 
north? 

LANDLORD. 
Yes,  he  was  inquirin'  for  a  j'oung  girl  in  a  red  cloak 
as  had  run  away  from  the  north.       He  said  her  name 
was   Hetty — Hetty  Sorrel. 

THE    LANDLADY    (Running  to   the   window.) 
Well,    she    couldn't    go    home    now,    that's    for    certain, 
and  she  told  us  not  to  tell.     It's  better  so,  perhaps,  it's 
better  so. 

THE    LANDLORD. 
Well,  I  gi'  ye  my  word  I  wouldn't  tell,  but  I  doubt  not 
trouble'll   come   o'   it.     I  don't   like   this   deceivin.' 

THE    LANDLADY. 

(Coaxingly,  laying  a  hand  on  his  arm.) 

But  you  couldn't  be  hard  on  the  poor  thing.     Do  you 
know  how  old  our  Mary  would  ha'  been  an'  she'd  lived? 
(The  landlord  rubs  the  back  of  his  hand  over  his  eyes,  and  the 
landlady  goes  to  a  chest  that  stands  at  one   side  of  the  room 
and  begins  to  take  out  a  baby's  shirts  and  little  dresses,  laying 
them  on  the  floor  in  a  little  white  pile  as 
The  Curtain  Falls. 


r  ACT    V>  j 

(SCENE,  a  Courtroom,  Time,  February,  1800.  At  the  back  of 
the  room  a  line  of  high  pointed  windows,  variegated  with  the 
mellow  tints  of  old  stained  glass.  At  one  side  is  an  oak  gal- 
lery with  dusty  armor  decorating  its  front.  At  the  other  side 
is  a  gallery  with  a  curtain  of  old  tapestry,  covered  with  dim, 
indistinct  figures.  On  the  bench  sits  a  grim  judge  in  a  black 
gown  and  white  powdered  wig.  In  front  of  him  and  below  him 
is  a  table  at  which  sit  the  clerk  of  the  court,  the  prosecutor  and 
a  barrister  who  acts  as  Hetty's  attorney,  all  in  wigs  and  gowns. 
On  one  side  is  the  Jury  of  twelve  men  and  at  the  other  the 
prisoner's  dock  in  which  Hetty  stands,  very  pale,  dressed  in 
black  with  white  collar  and  cuffs,  with  her  hands  clasped  before 
her.  The  court  room  is  filled  with  people,  among  whom  sits 
Mr.  Irwine  next  to  Martin  Poyser,  the  Jail  chaplain,  Bartle  Mas- 
sey  and  Adam  Bede.  Adam  sits  as  near  the  prisoner's  dock  as  he 
can  get,  with  his  head  part  of  the  time  bowed  forward  on  the  rail. 
The  rest  of  the  spectators  are  unkno^vTi  to  the  audience,  ex- 
cept that  some  of  the  tenants  who  appeared  at  the  Hall  in  the 
second  act  might  naturally  be  seen  among  them.  There  are 
also  ladies  in  the  court  room,  fashionably  and  elaborately  dress- 
ed after  the  fashion  of  the  time,  with  big  feathered  bonnets  and 
lorgnettes  which  they  put  up  to  stare  at  the  prisoner  and  then 
to  whisper.  The  ladies  are  seated  in  the  galleries.  When  the 
curtain  goes  up,  there  is  a  witness  in  the  witness  chair — an  el- 
derly man  in  rusty  black.  He  is  In  the  act  of  being  sworn  &» 
the  curtain  rises,  and  the  clerk  mumbles  the  oath  at  him,  much 
as  is  done  in  a  modern  court  of  law.  The  words  cannot  be  un- 
derstood by  the  audience  except  the  "s — eli) — y — God"  at  the 
end.  Instead  of  raising  his  hand  as  the  oath  is  administered  the 
witness  kisses   the  book.) 

THE   PROSECUTOR. 
What  is  your  name,  sir? 


ADAM    BEDE A    PLAY 


THE  WITNESS. 

Mark  Buford,  M.  D. 

THE   PROSECUTOR. 
You    know    this    defendant? 

THE  WITNESS. 
I  have  seen  her  before. 

THE    PROSECUTOR. 

Where  ? 

THE  WITNESS. 

At  the  Green  Man,   an  inn   in  Windsor,   where  I   was 
called  two  weeks   ago  to  treat  her. 

THE   PROSECUTOR. 
State   the   nature   of   the   treatment,    doctor. 

THE  WITNESS. 
I  delivered  her  of  a  child. 

THE    PROSECUTOR. 

Was  the  child  born  alive? 

THE  WITNESS. 

It   was,   sir. 

THE    PROSECUTOR. 

When  did  you  last  see  that   child,   doctor? 

THE  WITNESS. 
The  child  was  born  on  February  16,  and  the  day  after 
when  I  called,  the  landlady  of  the  inn  informed  me  that 
the  mother  and  child  had  left  the  place  and  she  did  not 
know   where   they   had   gone. 

THE   PROSECUTOR. 
In  your  judgment,  was  the  mother  insane? 

THE  WITNESS. 
Not    at    all,    sir.     She   asked    perfectly     rational    ques- 
tions   concerning   the    child    and    seemed    a    fine,    buxom 
young   country   woman. 

THE   PROSECUTOR. 
That  will  do,  doctor. 
(As  the  doctor  steps  down  from  the     chair  Hetty     stares   at 
him.) 


ADAM    BEDE A    PLAY  66 

HETTY. 

(As   though  speaking   to   herself.) 

I  never  had  no  child.    I  never  had  no  child. 

THE  BAILIFF  (Tapping  with  a  staff.) 
Order  in   court;    order   in   court. 

THE  CLERK  (Sonorously.) 
Martin  Poyser. 
(Martin    Poyser,    still    rotund,    but    not    nearly    so   rosy,    teikes 
the   chair.     He   is   sworn   as   the  doctor   was.) 

THE    PROSECUTOR. 

Your   name. 

MR.  POYSER. 

Martin  Poyser.       (Hetty  starts  visibly  as  though   she  had 
not  seen  him  before.) 

THE    PROSECUTOR. 

Where   do  you   reside? 

MR.  POYSER. 
In    the    parish   of   Mappleton,    county   of   Staffordshire. 

THE   PROSECUTOR. 
Have  you  ever  seen  the  defendant  before? 

MR.  POYSER. 
Yes,   sir,   she   is    my    sister's    child. 

THE   PROSECUTOR. 
When  did  you  last  see  the  defendant? 

MR.  POYSER. 
Five   weeks  ago  come  Friday,   sir. 

THE   PROSECUTOR. 
Where    did    she    reside? 

POYSER. 
At   my   house,   up   to   that   time,    sir. 
THE   PROSECUTOR. 
Did  she  have  a  child  when  you  last  saw  her? 

POYSER. 
She  did  not  and  I'm  sure 


gg  ADAM    BEDE A    PLAY 


THE   PROSECUTOR. 

That  will  do.  Answer  the  question,  please.  Do  you 
know  of  any  reason  why  the  witness  should  murder 
her   child? 

POYSER. 

I  do  not,  sir. 

THE   PROSECUTOR. 
That    will    do. 

HETTY'S    COUNSEL. 
I  should  like  to  ask  this  witness  a  question. 

THE    JUDGE. 
Proceed. 

HETTY'S  COUNSEL. 

Was   the   defendant's   reputation   good   in  her   parish? 
POYSER. 
None  better.     She  was  allays  a  good  gell  and  her  aunt— 
THE   PROSECUTOR. 
I  object  to  this  line  of  questioning  at  this  time. 

THE    JUDGE. 

No    further    questions    will    be    allowed.     (To    Po3^er) 
That   is   all. 
(Mr.    Poyser    leaves    the    courtroom.     Mr.    Irwine     joins      him 
and  puts  his  arm  around  his  shoulder  encouragingly.) 

THE    PROSECUTOR. 

Call  Sarah  Stone. 
(The  bailiff  goes  out  and  his  voice  is     heard  outside     bellow- 
ing) 

Sarah   Stone,    Sarah   Stone,    Sarah     Stone,   come     into 
court. 
(The   landlady   of  the   Green   Man   enters   the   room.       She   Is 
respectably  clad  in  bonnet  and  shawl,  and  looks  very  unhappy. 
She  is  sworn  like  the  others  and  takes  her  seat  in  the  witness 
chair.) 

THE   PROSECUTOR. 
Tell   us  your  name. 


ADAM    BEDE A     fj^i  €7 

THE     LANDLADY. 

My   name   is   Sarah    Stone. 

THE    PROSECUTOR. 

What  is  your  occupation  or  your  husband's  occupa- 
tion? 

THE    LANDLADY. 

My  husband  and  I  keep  the  Creen  Man,  a  licensed 
inn   in  Windsor.  j        \  i 

THE   PROSECUTOR. 

Tell  us  how  you  came  to  know  the  prisoner  at  the 
bar. 

THE    LANDLADY. 

The  prisoner  is  the  same  young  woman  who  came 
looking  ill  and  tired,  with  a  basket  on  her  arm  and 
asked  for  lodgings  at  the  Green  Man.  That  was  Feb- 
ruary 14.  My  husband  asked  her  to  come  in  and  eat, 
she  looked  that  tired.  The  prisoner  began  to  cry  and 
against  my  husband's  advice  I  asked  her  to  stay  at 
least  for  the  night.  Her  prettiness,  and  something  re- 
spectable about  her  clothes  and  looks,  and  the  trouble 
she  seemed  to  be  in,  made  me  as  I  couldn't  find  it  in  my 
heart  to  send  her  away  at  once.  She'd  hardly  any 
money  left  in  her  pocket,  but  I  saw  no  reason  why  I 
shouldn't  take  her  In.  I  thought  she'd  been  led  wrong 
and  got  into  trouble,  and  it  would  be  a  good  work  to 
keep  her   out   of  farther  harm. 

THE   PROSECUTOR    (Holding  out  some  baby  clothes.) 

Have  you  seen  these  clothes  before? 
THE    LANDLADY. 

Yes  sir.  I  made  them  myself,  and  had  kept  them  by 
me  ever  since  my  last  child  was  born.  I  took  a  deal 
of  trouble  both  for  the  child  and  the  mother.  I 
couldn't  help  taking  to  the  little  thing  and  being  anx- 
ious about  it.  The  second  night  after  she  came  the 
child  was  born,  and  the  next  day  the  mother  would 
have  no  nay  but  would  get  up  and  be  dressed,  in  spite 
of  everything  I     could  say.       She  said     she  felt     quite 


eS  ADAM    BEDE A    PLAY 

Strong  enough,  and  it  was  wonderful  what  spirit  she 
showed.  But  I  wasn't  quite  easy  what  I  should  do 
about  her,  and  towards  evening  I  made  up  my  mind 
I'd  go  and  speak  to  the  doctor  about  it.  I  left  the 
house   about  half-past   eight   o'clock. 

HETTY'S  COUNSEL. 
Your  honor,   I  object. 

THE   JUDGE. 
Objection  overruled.     Go    on. 

HETTY'S  COUNSEL. 
We    except. 

MRS.  STONE. 
I  left  the  prisoner  sitting  up  by  the  fire  in  the 
kitchen  with  the  baby  on  her  lap.  She  hadn't  cried  or 
seemed  low  at  all,  as  she  did  the  night  before.  I 
thought  she  had  a  strange  look  with  her  eyes,  and  she 
got  a  bit  flushed  toward  evening.  I  was  afraid  of  the 
fever.  I  was  longer  than  I  meant  to  be,  and  it  was 
an  hour  and  a  half  before  I  got  back,  and  when  I  went 
in,  the  candle  was  burning  just  as  I  left  it,  but  the 
prisoner  and  the  baby  were  both  gone.  She'd  taken 
her  cloak  and  bonnet,  but  she'd  left  her  basket  and 
things  in  it.  I  was  dreadful  frightened,  and  angry 
with  her  for  going.  I  didn't  go  to  give  infor- 
mation because  I'd  no  thought  she  meant  to  do  any 
harm,  and  I  knew  she  had  enough  money  in  her  pocket 
to  buy  food  and  lodging.  I  didn't  like  to  set  the  con- 
stable after  her,  for  she'd  a  right  to  go  from  me  if  she 
liked. 

THE    PROSECUTOR. 
That    will    do.    Mistress    Stone. 
(Hetty's   face   is   a   study   during  the    giving   of   this   witness' 
testimony.       The     landlady     leaves  the  stand,  looking  pittyingly 
toward   Hetty.) 

THE   PROSECUTOR. 
Call   John    Olding. 
The  bailiff   (as   before  outside  the  courtroom) 

John    Olding,   John    Olding,   John     Olding,    come     into 
court. 


ADAM    BEDE A    PLAY 


(A  man  in  a  smock  frock  enters  and  takes  the  witness  stand. 
He  is   sworn   as   the   others   were.) 

THE   PROSECUTOR. 

Your   name? 

THE    WITNESS. 

John    Olding,    sir. 

THE    PROSECUTOR. 

What    do    you    work    at? 

THE    WITNESS. 
I'm   a  laborer,   air. 

THE    PROSECUTOR. 

Where    do   you    live? 

THE    WITNESS. 

At   Tedd's   Hole,   two   miles  out  o'  Windsor. 
THE    PROSECUTOR. 

Tell    us    when    you   first   saw   this    prisoner. 
THE    WITNESS. 

A  week  last  Monday,  toward  one  o'clock  in  the  af- 
ternoon, I  was  going  toward  Hetton  Coppice,  and  about 
a  quarter  of  a  mile  from  the  coppice  I  saw  the  prison- 
er, in  a  red  cloak,  sitting  under  a  bit  of  a  haystack  not 
far  off  the  stile.  She  got  up  when  she  saw  me,  and 
seemed  as  If  she'd  be  walking  on  the  other  way.  It 
was  a  regular  road  through  the  fields,  and  nothing  very 
uncommon  to  see  a  young  woman  there,  but  I  took  no- 
tice of  her  because  she  looked  white  and  scared.  I 
should  have  thought  she  was  a  beggar  woman  only 
for  her  good  clothes.  I  thought  she  looked  a  bit  crazy, 
but  It  was  no  business  of  mine.  I  stood  and  looked 
back  arter  her,  but  she  went  right  on  while  she  was  In 
sight.  I  had  to  go  t'  other  side  of  the  coppice  to 
look  after  some  stakes.  I  hadn't  gone  far  afore  I  heard 
a  strange  cry.  I  thought  It  didn't  come  from  any  ani- 
mal I  knew,  but  I  wasn't  for  stopping  to  look  about  Just 
then.  But  it  went  on,  and  seemed  so  strange  to  me  In 
that  place,  I  couldn't  help  stopping  to  look.  But  Td 
hard   work  to   tell  which   way  it  came  from,   and   for  a 


70  ADAM     BEDE A    PLAY 


good  while  I  kept  looking  up  at  the  boughs.  And 
then  I  thought  it  came  from  the  ground;  and  there 
was  a  lot  o'  timber- choppings  lying  about,  and  loose 
pieces  o'  turf,  and  a  trunk  or  two.  And  I  looked  about 
among  them,  but  at  last  the  cry  stopped.  So  I  was  for 
giving  it  up,  and  went  on  about  my  business.  But  when 
I  come  back  the  same  way  pretty  nigh  an  hour  arter, 
I  couldn't  help  a-lying  down  my  stakes  to  have  another 
look.  And  just  as  I  was  stoopin'  and  a-layin'  down  o'  the 
stakes,  I  saw  somthing  odd  and  round  and  whitish  ly- 
ing on  the  ground  under  a  nut-bush  by  the  side  of  me. 
And  I  stooped  down  on  hands  and  knees  to  pick  it  up. 
And  I  saw  it  war  a  little  baby's  hand. 
(At  these  words  an  audible  thrill  runs  through  the  court. 
Hetty  trembles  visibly.) 

THE  PROSECUTOR. 

Go  on. 

THE  WITNESS. 

There  were  a  lot  o'  timber- choppings  put  together 
just  where  the  ground  went  hollow-like,  under  the 
bush,  and  the  hand  come  out  from  among  'em.  But 
there  were  a  hole  left  in  one  place,  and  I  could  see  down 
it,  and  see  the  child's  head;  and  I  made  haste  and  did 
away  the  turf  and  the  choppings,  and  took  out  the  child. 
It  had  got  comfortable  clothes  on,  but  its  body  was 
cold,  and  I  thought  it  must  be  dead.  I  made  haste  back 
with  it  out  o'  the  wood,  and  took  it  home  to  my  wife. 
She  said  it  war  dead,  and  I'd  better  take  it  to  the 
parish  and  tell  the  constable.  And  I  said,  'I'll  lay  my 
life  it's  that  young  woman's  child,  as  I  met  going  to  the 
coppice.'  But  she  seemed  to  be  gone  clean  out  of 
sight.  And  I  took  the  child  on  to  Hetton  parish  and 
told  the  constable,  and  we  went  on  to  Justice  Hardy. 
And  then  we  went  lookin'  arter  the  young  woman  till 
dark  at  night,  and  we  went  and  gave  information  at 
Stoniton  as  they  might  stop  her.  And  the  next  morn- 
ing another  constable  come  to  me,  to  go  with  him  to 
the  spot  where  I  found  the  child.  And  when  we  got 
there,  there  was  the  prisoner  a-sitting  against  the  bush 


ADAM    BEDE A    PLA.Y  71 

where   I  found  the   child;    and   she   cried   out   when   she 
saw  us,  but  she  never  offered  to  move.  She'd  got  a  big 
piece  o'  bread  on  her  lap. 
(As  the  witness  finishes  Adam  gives  a  despairing  groan  and 

drops  his  head   on  the   railing  in  front   of     him.     The     witness 

leaves   the   court   room.) 

THE   PROSECUTOR. 
That   is   the   case   for   the   Crown. 
THE   CLERK. 
Call  the  Reverend  Mr.  Irwine. 

THE    BAILIFF. 
Rector    Irwine,    Rector     Irwine,    Rector   Irwine,     come 
into  court. 
(Mr.   Irwine   takes   his   place   in   the   witness'    chair.) 

HETTY'S  COUNSEL. 

Your   name,  sir? 

MR.   IRWINE. 
Dauphin  Irwine. 

HETTY'S   COUNSEL. 
You    are    a    church    incumbent? 
MR.   IRWINE. 
Yes— of   the    parishes    of   Donnithorne    and    Mappleton. 

HETTY'S  COUNSEL. 
You    know    the    prisoner    at    the    bar? 

MR.  IRWINE. 
Yes.     She  is  one  of  my     parishioners — a     member     of 
one  of  the  most  excellent  families  in  the  parish. 

HETTY'S  COUNSEL. 

.  Had   the   prisoner  to   your  knowledge   ever   committed 
any    crime? 

MR.   IRWINE. 
Never,   so  far  as  I  know.     She  is   a  verj'  young  grlrl, 
only   eighteen,    of   highly   respectable     antecedents     and 
connections— a   regular  attendant   at   church,   quiet     and 
domestic.  I 


ADAM    BEDE A    PLAY 


HETTY'S  COUNSEL. 

Did   you   know   that  she   had   left  home? 
MR.   IRWiNE. 

Yes,  over  a  fortnight  ago.  One  of  my  parishioners 
came  to  me  and  told  me  that  Hetty  had  gone  to  visit 
a  relative  in  another  parish,  but  had  never  reached 
there  and  it  was  feared  that  something  had  befallen 
her.     Search  was  made. 

HETTY'S  COUNSEL. 

Do  you  know  any  reason  why  she  should  kill  her 
child,   supposing  that   she   did  kill   it? 

MR.   IRWINE. 

None  at  all.  I  believe  that  her  friends  would  have 
cared  for  her  in  her  trouble. 

HETTY'S  COUNSEL. 
That  will  do,  sir.  ' 

(Mr.   Irwine  takes  a  place  beside  Adam.) 

THE   JUDGE. 

Gentlemen  of  the  jury,  you  have  heard  the  evidence 
in  this  case.  You  have  heard  the  testimony  of  the  doc- 
tor who  delivered  the  prisoner  of  her  child;  you  have 
heard  the  evidence  of  the  woman  who  sheltered  her 
and  from  whom  she  ran  away;  you  have  heard  the 
testimony  of  the  laborer  who  found  the  dead  child  in 
the  field  after  seeing  the  mother  leave  the  place  hurried- 
ly. The  child  was  dressed  in  clothes  which  have  been 
identified  by  the  witness  Stone.  You  have  heard  the 
testimony  of  the  uncle  of  the  prisoner  who  gave  her  a 
home  and  of  the  rector  of  her  parish  who  believes  that 
her  friends  would  have  forgiven  her  had  she  confessed 
her  fault  to  them.  You  have  seen  the  obstinate  bear- 
ing of  the  prisoner  and  you  have  heard  her  deny.  In 
the  face  of  the  evidence,  that  she  ever  had  a  child.  It 
is  now  your  duty  to  decide  the  question  of  fact — did  the 
prisoner  at  the  bar  bury  her  new-born  child,  with  the 
intention  of  abandoning  it  to  its  fate?  The  fact  that 
it  was  alive  when  its   cries   were   heard  by   Olding  has 


ADAM    BEDE A    PLAY  78 

nothing  to  do  with  the  case — the  intent  to  kill   is     the 
same.       You  will  now  retire  and  consider  your  verdict. 
If  you   believe   the   witnesses   that   you   have   heard   tes- 
tify you  must  bring  in   a  verdict  of  guilty. 
(The  jury  files  out  of  the  box  and   off  the  stage.       The  judge 
goes  in  the  opposite  direction  and  is  followed  by  Hetty  between 
her   jailers.     The    court    room   breaks   into    a   low    hum    of    con- 
versation.) 

ADAM. 
Is   he   come   back? 

MR.   IRWINE. 
No,    he    is    not. 
ADAM    (looking  hard   at  Mr.  Irwine,  in  a  tone  of  angry  sus- 
picion.) 

You  needn't  deceive  me,  sir,  I  only  want  Justice. 
I  want  him  to  feel  what  she  feels.  It's  his  work.  .  .  . 
she  was  a  child  as  it  'ud  ha'  gone  t'anybody's  heart  to 
look  at.  .  .  I  don't  care  what  she's  done.  .  .  It 
was  him  brought  her  to  it.  And  he  shall  know  it.  . 
he  shall  feel  it.  .  .  if  there's  a  just  God,  he  shall  feel 
what  it  is  t'  ha'  brought  a  child  like  her  to  sin  and 
misery.     .     . 

MR.   IRWINE. 

I'm  not  deceiving  you,  Adam,  Arthur  Donnithorne  Is 
not  come  back — was  not  come  back  when  I  left.  I  have 
left  a  letter  for  him;  he  will  know  all  as  soon  as  he  ar- 
rives, i 

ADAM    (Indignantly.) 

But    you    don't    mind    about    it.     You    think    it    doesn't 
matter   as   she    stands   here   in    shame   and    misery,    and 
he  knows  nothing  about  it — he  suffers  nothing. 
MR.   IRWINE. 

Adam,  he  TVILL,  know — he  WIT^L,  suffer,  long  and 
bitterly.  He  has  a  heart  and  a  conscience;  I  can't  be 
entirely  deceived  in  his  character.  He  may  be  weak, 
but  he  is  not  callous,  not  coldly  selfish.  I  am  persuad- 
ed that  this  will  be  a  shock  of  which  he  will  feel  the 
effects  all  his  life.    Why  do  you  crave  vengeance  in  this 


74  ADAM    BEDE A    PLAY 

way?     No   amount  of  torture   that   you   could   inflict   on 
HIM   could   benefit  HER. 

ADAM  (Groaning  aloud.) 
No — Oh  God,  no,  but  this  is  the  deepest  curse  of  all. 
.  .  that's  what  makes  the  blackness  of  it.  .  .  IT 
CAN  NEVER  BE  UNDONE.  My  poor  Hetty.  .  .  she 
can  never  be  my  sweet  Hetty  again.  .  .  the  prettiest 
thing  that  God  had  made — smiling  up  at  me.  .  .  I 
thought  she  loved  me.  .  .  and  was  good.  .  .  But 
she  isn't  as  guilty  as  they  say?  You  don't  think  she  Is, 
sir?     She    can't    ha'    done    it. 

MR.  IRWINE  (Gently.) 

That  perhaps  can  never  be  known  with  certainty, 
Adam.  But  suppose  the  worst;  you  have  no  right  to 
say  that  the  guilt  of  her  crime  lies  with  him,  and  that 
he  ought  to  bear  the  punishment.  It  is  not  for  us  men 
to  apportion  the  shares  of  moral  guilt  and  retribution. 
We  find  it  impossible  to  avoid  mistakes  even  in  deter- 
mining who  has  committed  a  single  criminal  act,  and 
the  problem  how  far  a  man  is  to  be  held  responsible  for 
the  unforeseen  consequences  of  his  own  deed,  is  one 
that  might  well  make  us  tremble  to  look  into  it..  Don't 
suppose  I  can't  enter  into  the  anguish  that  drives  you 
into  this  state  of  revengeful  hatred;  but  think  of  this: 
if  you  were  to  obey  your  passion — for  it  IS  passioni, 
and  you  deceive  yourself  in  calling  it  justice — it  might 
be  with  you  precisely  as  it  has  been  with  Arthur;  nay, 
wor-se;  your  passion  might  lead  you  yourself  into  a 
horrible  crime. 

ADAM  (Bitterly.) 
No —  not  worse.  I  don't  believe  it's  worse.  I'd  soon- 
er do  a  wickedness  as  I  could  suffer  for  myself,  than 
ha'  brought  HER  to  do  wickedness  and  then  stand  by 
and  see  'em  punish  her  while  they  let  me  alone;  and  all 
for  a  bit  o'  pleasure,  as,  if  he'd  had  a  man's  heart  in 
him,  he'd  ha'  cut  his  hand  off  sooner  than  he'd  ha' 
taken  it.  What  if  he  didn't  foresee  what's  happened? 
He   foresaw    enough;    he'd    no    right   t'    expect    anjrthlng 


ADAM    BEDE A    PLAif  75 

but   harm   and   shame   to   her.     And   then  he   wanted   to 
smooth    it    over    wi'    lies.     No — there's    plenty    o'    things 
folks  are  hanged  for  not  half  so  hateful  as  that;    let  a 
man  do  what  he  will,  if  he  knows  he's  to  bear  the  pun- 
ishment himself,  he  isn't  half  so  bad  as  a  mean  selfish 
coward  as  makes  things  easy  t'  himself,  and  knows  all 
the   while  the  punishment  'uU  fall  on  somebody  else. 
(The  knock  of  the  jury   is  heard.       The   clerk  hastens   away 
to  summon  the  judge.     The  court  room,  which  has  been  in  dis- 
order,  sinks   into  the   deepest   silence   as   the  judge   comes   back 
through  the  door  by  which  he  left,   with     Hetty  and  her     jail- 
ers  following.       She   stands   again   in   the   prisoner's   dock.    The 
■oailiff  raps  for  order  and  shouts  "Order  in  court,"  as  the  door 
opens  and  the  jury  files   in.     Everyone  except  Hetty  leans  for- 
ward,   scrutinizing  the   faces.       She     alone   seems     turned       to 
stone.) 

THE  CLERK   (calling  off  the  names  of  the  jurors.) 

Luke  Bannister,  Silas  Marner,  Seth  Britton,  John 
Casson,  James  Taft,  Michael  Holdsworth,  Willum 
Craig,  Joshua  Rann,  Willum  Downes,  Benjamin  Ga- 
waine,  John  Satchell,  Job  Knowles,  have  you  agreed 
upon  a  verdict? 

FOREMAN   OF  THE  JURY. 
We    have. 

THE  CLERK  (To  Hetty.) 
Hold   up   your   hand.     (She   holds   it   up.) 
(To   the  jury).     What   is   your  verdict? 

FOREMAN   OF  THE  JURY. 

Guilty. 
(In   the  midst  of  intense  silence  the  judge  puts  on  his  black 
cap  and  the  jail  chaplain  in  canonicals  appears  behind  him.) 

THE    JUDGE. 

Hester    Sorrel,    what    have    you    to    say    why    sentence 
should    not    be    passed    upon    you? 

HETTY. 

I  never  had  any  child.     I  never  had  any  child. 


78  ADAM    BEDE A    PLAY 

THE   JUDGE    (Frowning.) 

Hester  Sorrel,  you  have  been  found  guilty  by  a  jury  of 
your  peers  of  a  murder  most  foul  and  barbarous — to-wit, 
child  murder — for  which  the  laws  of  your  country  have 
affixed    the    punishment    of    death.     The    result    of    your 
trial  pronounces  you  a  guilty  person  and  it  now  awaits 
you  to   hear   the   sentence   under   which    you   are   to  re- 
ceive   your    country's      justice.     That      sentence    is    that 
you,  Hester  Sorrel,   be  taken  from  the  bar  of  the  court 
where  you   now  stand   to  the   place   whence   you   came, 
the  jail,  and  thence  you  are  to  be  conveyed  on  Monday 
next  to   the   common   place  of  execution   and   there   you 
are  to  be  hanged  by  the  neck  until  you  are   dead  and 
the  Lord  have  mercy  on  your  soul' 
(As    the   judge    pronounces    the    words    "until    you    are    dead," 
Hetty   gives   a  piercing   shriek,     Adam  jumps   to     his   feet   and 
stretches  his  arms  toward  her,   but   cannot  reach   her,   and  she 
falls  fainting  inside  the  prisoner's  dock,  not  a  soul  stretching  a 
hand  to  save  her,  as  the  judge  pronounces  the  final  phrases. 
The  Curtain  Falls. 


Scene    2. 


(The  stage  is  entirely  dark  as  the  curtain  rises  on  Hetty's 
cell.  Dinah  enters  through  a  door  at  the  back,  opened  for  her 
by  a  turnkey  with  a  key  which  grates  in  the  lock.  He  has  a 
lantern.  He  steps  into  the  cell  and  his  lantern  searches  out 
the  gloom  of  the  room,  revealing  Hetty  with  her  head  on  her 
knees  seated  on  a  truckle-bed  of  straw.  She  is  very  pale  and 
dressed  in  black,  without  a  cap,  her  hair  disordered  and  with 
only  a  white  neckerchief  at  her  throat.  Dinah  wears  black  with 
a  white  collar  and  cuffs  and  her  plain  white  cap.  She  looks  like 
a  sister  of  mercy.  She  also  is  very  pale.  Dinah  waits  till  the 
door  closes  behind  the  turnkey  with  a  clang.  He  leaves  his 
lantern  behind  him.     A  ray  of  light  falls  on  Hetty.) 


ADAM    BEDE A    PLAY 


DINAH   (Softly.) 
Hetty. 
(No  answer  or  movement  from  Hetty.) 
DINAH. 
Hetty— it's  Dinah. 
(Hetty  makes   a  little  motion.) 

DINAH. 
Hetty — Dinah  is  come  to  you. 
(Hetty  lifts  her  head  slowly  from  her  knees.     Dinah  stretches 
out   her   arms    to   her.) 

DINAH. 
Don't  you  know  me,  Hetty?     Don't  you  remember  Di- 
nah?   Did  you  think  I  wouldn't  come  to  you  in  trouble? 
(Hetty  fixes  her  eyes  on  Dinah's  face.) 
DINAH. 
I'm  come   to  be  with   you.   Hetty — not   to   leave   you — 
to  stay  with  you — to  be  your  sister  to   the  last. 
(Hetty  rises,  takes  a  step  forward  and  is  clasped  in  Dinah's 
arms.     After  a  pause  they  sit  down  side  by  side  on  the  bed.) 
DINAH   (Very  gently.) 
Hetty,  do  you  know  who  it  is  that  sits  by  your  side? 

HETTY  (Slowly.) 
Yes— it's  Dinah. 

DINAH. 
Oh,  if  I'd  only  known  sooner  of  this,  but  I  was  in 
Leeds  and  came  the  moment  I  heard.  Do  you  remem- 
ber the  time  we  were  at  the  Hall  Farm  together,  and  I 
told  you  to  be  sure  and  think  of  me  as  a  friend  in 
trouble  ? 

HETTY. 
Yes — but    3'^ou    can    do    nothing   for    me     now.         You 
can't   make  'em   do   anything.     They'll   hang,  me   in     the 
morning.     It's    arter   midnight    now. 
(She  shudders  and  clings  to  Dinah.) 
DINAH. 
No,   Hetty,   I   can't   save   you   from   that   death.       But 
Isn't   the  suffering  less  hard   when   you   have   somebody 


78  ADAM    BEDE A    PLAY 

with    you,    that   feels   for   you — that   you    can    speak   to, 
and  say  what's  in  your  heart?     .     .     Hetty,  lean  on  me; 
you  are   glad   to  have   me   with  you? 
HETTY. 

You  won't  leave  me,  Dinah?  You'll  keep  close  to 
me? 

DINAH. 

No,   Hetty,   I  won't   leave   you.    I'll   stay   with   you   to 
the  last     .     .     .     But,  Hetty,  there  is  some  one   else   in 
this  cell  besides  me,  some  one  close  to  you. 
HETTY  (In  a  frightened  whisper.) 

Who? 

DINAH. 

Some  one  who  has  been  with  you  through  all  your 
hours  of  sin  and  trouble — who  has  known  every  thought 
you  have  had — has  seen  where  you  went,  where  you  laid 
down  and  rose  up  again,  and  all  the  deeds  you  have 
tried  to  hide  in  darkness.  And  in  the  morning,  when  I 
can't  follow  you — when  my  arms  can't  reach  you — when 
death  has  parted  us — He  who  is  with  us  now,  and 
knows  all,  will  be  with  you  then.  It  makes  no  difference 
— whether  we  live  or  die,  we  are  in  the  presence  of 
God. 

HETTY. 

Oh,  Dinah,  won't  nobody  do  anything  for  me?  WILL 
they  hang  me  for  certain?  ...  I  wouldn't  mind  if 
they'd  let  me  live. 

DINAH. 

My  poor  Hetty,  death  is  very  dreadful  to  you.  I 
know  it's  dreadful.  But  if  you  had  a  friend  to  take  care 
of  you  after  death — in  that  other  world — some  one 
whose  love  Is  greater  than  mine — who  can  do  every- 
thing. .  .  If  God  our  Father  was  your  friend,  and 
was  willing  to  save  you  from  sin  and  suffering,  so  as 
you  should  neither  know  wicked  feelings  nor  pain 
again?  If  you  could  believe  He  loved  you  and  would 
help  you,  as  you  believe  that  I  love  you  and  will  help 
you,  it  wouldn't  be   so  hard  to  die  would  it? 


ADAM    BEDE A    PLAY  79 


HETTY. 

But  I  can't  know  anything  about  it. 
DINAH. 

Because,  Hetty,  you  are  shutting  up  your  soul 
against  Him  by  trying  to  hide  the  truth.  God's  love 
and  mercy  can  overcome  all  things — ignorance,  and 
weakness,  and  all  the  burden  of  our  past  wickedness 
— all  things  but  our  willful  sin;  sin  that  we  cling  to, 
and  will  not  give  up.  .  .  He  can't  bless  you  while 
you  have  one  falsehood  in  your  soul;  His  mercy  can't 
reach  you  until  you  open  your  heart,  and  say,  'I  have 
done  this  great  wickedness;  O  God,  save  me,  make  me 
pure  from  sin.'  Cast  it  off,  now,  Hetty — now;  confess 
the  wickedness  you  have  done — the  sin  you  have  been 
guilty  of  against  your  heavenly  Father.  Let  us  kneel 
down  together,  for  we  are  in  the  presence  of  God. 
(Holding  Hetty's  hand,  Dinah  kneels  and  Hetty  follows  her.) 
DINAH. 

Hetty,  v/e  are  before  God;  He  is     waiting    for    you  to 
tell  the  truth. 

HETTY  (Beseechingly.) 

Dinah.     .     .     help  me.     .     .     I  can't  feel  anything  like 
you.     .     .     my  heart  is  hard. 

DINAH    (Her  whole  soul  in  her  voice.) 

Jesus,  thou  present  Saviour!  Thou  hast  known  the 
depths  of  all  sorrow;  Thou  hast  entered  that  black  dark- 
ness where  God  is  not,  and  has  uttered  the  cry  of  the 
forsaken.  Come,  Lord,  and  gather  of  the  fruits  of  Thy 
travail  and  Thy  pleading;  stretch  forth  Thy  hand,  Thou 
who  art  mighty  to  save  to  the  uttermost,  and  rescue 
this  lost  one.  She  is  clothed  round  with  thick  dark- 
ness; the  fetters  of  her  sin  are  upon  her,  and  she  can- 
not stir  to  come  to  Thee;  she  can  only  feel  that  her 
heart  is  hard,  and  she  is  helpless.  She  cries  to  me.  Thy 
weak  creature.  .  .  Saviour!  It  is  a  blind  cry  to 
thee.  Hear  it!  Pierce  the  darkness!  Look  upon  her 
with  Thy  face  of  love  and  sorrow,  that  Thou  didst  turn 
on  him  who  denied  Thee;  and  melt  her  hard  heart. 


80  ADAM    BEDE A    PLAY 

See,  Lord — I  bring  her,  as  they  of  old  brought  th* 
sick  and  helpless,  and  Thou  didst  heal  them;  I  bear  her 
on  my  arms  and  carry  her  before  Thee.  Saviour!  it  is 
yet  time — time  to  snatch  this  poor  soul  from  everlasting 
darkness.  I  believe — I  believe  in  Thy  infinite  love.  What 
is  MY  love  or  MY  pleading?  It  is  quenched  in  Thine. 
I  can  only  clasp  her  in  my  weak  arms,  and  urge  her 
with  my  weak  pity.  Thou' — Thou  wilt  breathe  on  the 
dead  soul,  and  it  shall  arise  from  the  unanswering  sleep 
of  death.  Lord,  I  see  Thee,  coming  through  the  dark- 
ness, coming,  like  the  morning,  with  healing  on  Thy 
wings.  The  marks  of  Thy  agony  are  upon  Thee — I  see 
I  see  Thou  art  able  and  willing  to  save — Thou  wilt  not 
let  her  perish  forever.  Come,  mighty  Saviour;  let  th* 
dead  hear  Thy  voice;  let  the  eyes  of  the  blind  be  opened; 
let  her  see  that  God  encompasses  her;  let  her  tremble  at 
nothing  but  at  the  sin  that  cuts  her  off  from  Him. 
Melt  the  hard  heart;  unseal  the  closed  lips:  make  her 
cry  with  her  whole  soul,  "Father,  I  have  sinned!" 
HETTY  (Sobbing  and  throwing  her  arms  around  Dinah's  neck.) 
Dinah,  I  will  speak.  .  .  I  will  tell.  ...  I  won't 
hide  it  any  more. 
(They   sit    on   the    bed.) 

HETTY. 
I  did  do  it,  Dinah.  .  .  I  buried  it  in  the  wood.  .  . 
the  little  baby.  .  .  and  it  cried.  .  I  heard  it  cry 
.  .  .  ever  such  a  way  off.  .  .  all  night.  .  .  and 
I  went  back  because  it  cried.  .  .  (after  a  pause)  But 
I  thought  perhaps  it  wouldn't  die — there  might  some- 
body find  it.  I  didn't  kill— I  didnt  kill  it  myself.  I 
put  it  down  there  and  covered  it  up,  and  when  I  came 
back  it  was  gone.  .  .  It  was  because  I  was  so  very 
miserable,  Dinah.  .  .  I  didn't  know  where  to  go.  .  . 
and  I  tried  to  kill  myself  before,  and  I  couldn't.  Oh, 
I  tried  so  to  drown  myself  in  the  pool,  and  I  couldn't. 
I  went  to  Windsor.  I  ran  away — did  you  know?  I  went 
to  find  him,  as  he  might  take  care  of  me;  and  he  wels 
gone;  and  then  I  didn't  know  what  to  do.  I  daredn't 
go   back  home   again — I     couldn't     bear   it.     I     couldn't 


ADAM    BEDE A    PLAY  81 

have  bore  to  look  at  anybody,  for  thejr'd  have  scorned 
me.  I  thought  o'  you  sometimes,  and  thought  I'd  come 
to  you,  for  I  didn't  think  you'd  be  cross  with  me,  and 
cry  shame  on  me;  I  thought  I  could  tell  you.  But  then, 
the  other  folks  'ud  come  to  know  it  at  last,  and  I  couldn't 
bear  that.  I  was  so  frightened  at  going  wandering 
about  till  I  was  a  beggar-woman,  and  had  nothing;  and 
sometimes  it  seemed  as  if  I  must  go  back  to  the  Farm 
sooner  than  that.  Oh!  it  was  so  dreadful,  Dinah.  .  I 
was  so  miserable.  .  .  I  wished  I'd  never  been  born 
into  this  world.  I  should  never  like  to  go  into  the  fields 
again — I  hated  'em  so  in  my  misery. 

DINAH. 

My  poor  child. 

HETTY. 

And  then  I  got  to  Windsor  and  the  little  baby  was 
born,  when  I  didn't  expect  it;  and  the  thought  came  in- 
to my  mind  that  I  might  get  rid  of  it,  and  go  home 
again.  The  thought  came  all  of  a  sudden,  as  I  was 
lying  In  the  bed,  and  It  got  stronger  and  stronger.  .  . 
I  longed  to  go  back  again.  .  .  I  couldn't  bear  being 
so  lonely  and  coming  to  beg  for  want.  And  It  gave 
me  strength  to  get  up  and  dress  myself.  I  felt  I  must 
do  it.  .  .  I  didn't  know  how.  .  .  I  thought  I'd 
find  a  pool,  if  I  could;  like  that  other,  in  the  corner  of 
the  field  In  the  dark.  And  when  the  woman  went  out, 
I  felt  as  if  I  was  strong  enough  to  do  anything.  .  .  I 
thought  I  should  get  rid  of  all  my  misery  and  go  back 
home,  and  never  let  'em  know  why  I  ran  away.  I  put 
on  my  bonnet  and  cloak  and  went  out  into  the  dark 
street  with  the  baby  under  my  cloak,  and  I  walked  fast 
till  I  got  into  a  street  a  ^ood  way  ofC  and  there  was  a 
public  inn  and  I  got  some  warm  stuff  to  drink  and  some 
bread.  And  I  walked  on  and  on,  and  I  hardly  felt  the 
ground  I  trod  on;  and  it  got  lighter,  for  there  came  the 
moon— oh,  Dinah!  it  frightened  me  when  it  first  looked 
at  me  out  o'  the  clouds — it  never  looked  so  before;  and 
I  turned  out  of  the  road  into  the  fields,  for  I  was  afraid 
o'  meeting  anybody  with  the  moon  shining  on  me.     And 


82  ADAM    BEDE A    PLAY 


I  came  to  a     hay- stack,  where  I     thought  I  could     lie 
down  and  keep   myself  warm  all   night.     There  was     a 
place  cut  into  it,  where  I  could  make  me  a  bed;   and  I 
lay  comfortable,  and  the  baby  was  warm     against  me;  • 
and   I   must   have   gone   to   sleep   for   a   good   while,   for 
when   I  woke   it   was    morning,   but   not   very   light,   and 
the  baby  was  crying.     And  I  saw  a  wood  a  little  way  off. 
.     .     .    I  thought  there'd  perhaps  be  a  ditch  or  a  pond 
there.     .     .     and  it  was  so  early  I  thought  I  could  hide 
the  child  there,  and  get  a  long  way  off  before  the  folks 
was  up.     And  then  I  thought  I'd  go  home — I'd  get  rides 
in  carts  and  go  home,  and  tell  'em  I'd  been  to  try  and 
seek  for  a  place  and  couldn't  get  one.     I  longed  so  for  it, 
Dinah — I  longed  so  to  be  safe  at  home.    I  don't  know 
how  I  felt  about  the  baby.    I  seemed  to  hate  it — It  was 
like  a  heavy   weight  hanging  round   my   neck;    and  yet 
its  crying  went  through  me,  and  I  dared  not  look  at  its 
little  hands  and  face.     But  I  went  on  to  the  wood,  and 
I   walked   about,   but   there   was   no   water. 

(Hetty     shudders.     After   a   silence   she     goes   on   In   a     loud 
whisper.) 

I  came  to  a  place  where  there  were  lots  of  chips  and 
turf,  and  I  sat  down  on  the  trunk  of  a  tree  to  think 
what  I  should  do.  And  all  of  a  sudden  I  saw  a  hole 
under  the  nut-tree,  like  a  little  grave.  And  It  darted  in- 
to me  like  lightning — I'd  lay  the  baby  there,  and  cover  it 
with  the  grass  and  the  chips.  I  couldn't  kill  It  any 
other  way.  And  I'd  done  it  in  a  minute;  and  oh.  It 
cried  so,  Dinah— I  COULDN'T  cover  It  quite  up.  I 
thought  perhaps  somebody  'ud  come  and  take  care  of 
it.  and  then  it  wouldn't  die.  And  I  made  haste  out  of 
the  wood,  but  I  could  hear  it  crying  all  the  while;  and 
when  I  got  out  into  the  fields,  it  was  as  if  I  was  held 
fast — I  couldn't  go  away,  for  all  I  wanted  so  to  go.  And 
I  pat  against  the  haystack  to  watch  if  anybody  'ud  come; 
I  was  very  hungry,  and  I'd  only  a  bit  of  bread  left;  but 
I  couldn't  go  away.  And  after  ever  such  a  while — ^hours 
and  hours — the  man  came — him  in  the  smock-frock — 
and  he  looked  at  me  so,  I  was  frightened,  and  I  made 


ADAM    BEDE A    PLAY 


haste  and  went  on.     I  thought  he  was  going  to  the  wood 
and   would,    perhaps,    find   the   baby.     And   I   went   right 
on,   till  I  came   to   a  village,   a   long  way  off  from   the 
wood;    and  I  was  very  sick,  and  faint,  and  hungry.       I 
got  something  to   eat   there,   and   bought  a  loaf.     But  I 
was   frightened   to   stay.     I  heard   the   baby   crying,   and 
thought   the   other   folks  heard   it   too — and   I   went   on. 
But  I  was  so  tired,  and  it  was  getting     toward     dark. 
And  at  last  by  the  roadside  there  was  a  bam — ever  such 
a  way  off  any  house — and  I  thought  I  could  go  in  there 
and  hide  myself  among  the  hay  and  straw,  and  nobody 
'ud  be  likely  to  come.     I  went  in,  and  it  was  half  full  o' 
trusses  of  straw,  and  there  was  some  hay  too.     And   I 
made  myself  a  bed,   ever   so  far   behind,   where   nobody 
could  find  me;   and  I  was  so  tired  and  weak,  I  went  to 
sleep.     .      .     But  oh,  the  baby's  crying  kept  waking  me; 
and  I  thought  that  man  as  looked  at  me  so  was  come 
and  laying  hold  of  me.     But  I  must  have  slept  a   long 
while  at  last,  though  I  didn't  know;   for  when  I  got  up 
and  went  out  of  the  bam,  I  didn't  know  whether  it  was 
night  or  morning.     But  It  was  morning,  for  it  kept  get- 
ting lighter;   and  I  turned  back    the     way    I'd     come.     I 
couldn't  help  it,  Dinah;    it  was  the  baby's  crying  made 
me  go;    and   yet  I   was  frightened   to   death.    I  thought 
that  man  in  the  smock-frock  'ud  see  me,  and  know  I 
put  the  baby  there.     But  I  went  on,  for  I'd  left  off  think- 
ing about  going  home — it  had  gone  out  o'  my  mind.     I 
saw  nothing  but  that  place  in  the  wood  where  I'd  buried 
the  baby.     .     .     I  see  it  now.     Oh,  Dinah!    shall  I  allays 
see    it? 

(Clings    to   Dinah,    shuddering,    but    goes    on    again.) 

I  met  nobody,  for  it  was  very  early,  and  I  got  into  the 
wood.  .  .  I  knew  the  way  to  the  place.  .  .  the 
place  against  the  nut- tree;  and  I  could  hear  it  crying 
at  every  step.  .  .  I  thought  it  was  alive.  .  I  don't 
know  whether  I  was  frightened  or  glad.  .  .  I  don't 
know  what  I  felt.  I  only  know  I  was  in  the  wood  and 
heard  the  cry.  I  don't  know  what  I  felt  till  I  saw  the 
baby  was   gone.     And  when  I'd  put  it   there,  I  thought 


84  ADAM    BEDE A    PLAY 

I  should  like  somebody  to  find  it,  and  save  it  from  dy- 
ing; but  when  I  saw  it  was  gone,  I  was  struck  like  a 
stone  with  fear.  I  never  thought  o'  stirring,  I  felt  so 
weak*  I  knew  I  couldn't  run  away,  and  everybody  as 
saw  me  'ud  know  about  the  baby.  M5'  heart  went  like 
a  stone;  I  couldn't  wish  or  try  for  anything;  it  seemed 
like  as  if  I  should  stay  there  forever,  and  nothing  'ud 
ever  change.  But  they  came  and  took  me  away. 
(Another   silence.) 

Dinah,  do  you  think  God  will  take  away  that  crying 
and  the  place  in  the  wood,  now  I've  told  everything? 

DINAH. 

Let  us  fall  on  our  knees  again,  and  pray  to  the  God  of 
all   mercy. 
(The   key   is   heard     grating   in   the   lock   and   Hetty,     with   a 
shriek,   clings   to   Dinah.     The   door  opens   to   admit   Adam.) 

DINAH. 

Speak  to  him  Hetty,  tell  him  what  is  in  your  heart. 

HETTY. 
Adam.     .     .    I'm    very     sorry.     .     .     I     behaved     very 
wrong    to    you.     .     .     will    you    forgive    me.     .     .     before 
I    die? 

ADAM   (With  a  half  sob.) 
Yes,  I  forgive  thee,  Hetty;   I  forgave  thee  long  ago. 
HETTY  (Keeping  hold  of  Dinah's  hand,  goes  up  to  Adam  and 
pays  timidly.) 

Will   you   kiss   me   again,   Adam,   for   all   I've   been   so 
wicked  ? 
(Adam  takes  her  hand  and  they  give  the   solemn  kiss  of 
a  lifelong  parting.) 

HETTY   (In  a  stronger  voice.) 
And    tell    him.     .     .     tell    him.     .     .    for      there's      no- 
body  else   to  tell     him.     .     .     as   I   went   after  him   and 
couldn't   find    him.     .     .    and    I   hated    him    and      cursed 
him  once.      .     .but  Dinah  says  I  should  forgive  him. 
and   I  try.    .     .    for   else   God   won't   forgive   me 
(There  is  a  noise  at  the  door  of  the  cell  and  a  key  turns  In 


ADAM    BEDE A    PLAY  85 

the  lock.  There  is  a  crowd  of  jailers  at  the  door,  with  th» 
prison  chaplain  and  Mr.  Irv/ine.  Hetty  stares  at  them» 
clasping  Dinah's  hand  as 

The    Curtain    Falls. 


TABLEAU. 

The  curtain  rises  to  show  Hetty  and  Dinah  standing  in  the 
death  cart  on  the  way  to  execution.  The  time  is  7:30  of  a 
March  morning,  and  the  dawn  is  yet  brilliant  in  the  east. 
Hetty  wears  a  long  black  cloak,  her  hair  blows  wild,  and  she 
is  clasped  in  Dinah's  arms.  Dinah's  eyes  are  fixed  on  the 
heavens  and  her  lips  move. 

The    Curtain    Falls. 


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